


Crane Manor, 1781

by thedamnstars



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: ALL THE FLUFF, Adultery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, American Revolution, Descriptions of PTSD, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, I know nothing about history so..., Implied/Referenced Cheating, Magic, Period-Typical Racism, Season One Canon, Servants, Time Travel, Women with Agency!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 20:43:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1831645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedamnstars/pseuds/thedamnstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abbie gets sent back to 1781 three years after Ichabod awakens in Sleepy Hollow, and three years into the Witnesses' fight against evil. After finding herself being made a servant in the Cranes' humble manor two months before Ichabod's death, Abbie struggles with defeating the evils that plague Revolutionary America. But now she must battle them with a version of Crane she's never met before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Douglas Valley

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and welcome! I'm pretty excited for this fic already, even though I've only mapped about the first 5 chapters. After bingeing the first season for like the 3rd time I decided that I really wanted to see Abbie in the Rev. Era, and so this fic was born. It was a total labor of love, and I really hope you enjoy it!

It was six o'clock at night on a Sunday, when an intruder broke into the Graham's home and attempted to take Mrs. Elizabeth Graham's life.

Well, at least that's what the official statement filed by Captain Frank Irving said.

Mrs. Graham however, had been spewing nonsense about ghosts and revenge and blood, when a group of teenagers found her wandering through the forest behind her home in Sleepy Hollow. There was no trace of an intruder anywhere on site; the only thing left that could be used as evidence were the very bloody remains of her blonde labrador (Trudy) that was strewn across a field of oak trees forty yards into a thick line of trees behind her subdivision home.

For most of the precinct, Mrs. Graham's case was not cause for alarm. But Captain Irving insisted that precautions be taken in order to protect Mrs. Graham and her husband Philip, to whom she'd been wed forty years. What Captain Irving had kept from his inferiors however, was that Elizabeth's cries of ghosts and revenge and blood had shaken him to his very core.

Thirty minutes before they are called in on that same Sunday, Lieutenant Abbie Mills is losing in a game of Scrabble to Professor Ichabod Crane, while sitting in the very run down archives of the Sleepy Hollow Sheriff's Department.

"Phobia? Really Crane?"  _That's just not fair_.  _And he got a triple word score, dammit!_  She'd managed to rack up some points with 'jukebox', but at this point there was no way she could catch up with him... Not when he was pulling words like 'exhibition' and 'quartz'.

He wasn't even fully paying attention, either. While Abbie was struggling to anagram her letters by cheating on her Webster's Dictionary app, Crane was sitting in his arm chair reading a musty reference text and only occasionally moving around his letters. Abbie rooted her hand around in the letter bag, hoping for a non-vowel.

"Grrrr!" she complained, throwing the piece into the air, over her shoulder. In Crane's mind, it roughly translated to a saying he was fond of: ' _This day continues to bare gifts'._ She'd started saying it a few months back, claiming his words had been the perfect melding of sarcasm and Revolutionary Era Charm. "Another fucking ' _E'_!"

"Language, Lieutenant," he chided good-naturedly, looking up from the heavy book that sat across his lap. She met his eyes and found them hinted with a jovial glint, a slight grin tugging at his lips. He'd gotten used to her colorful language (and it wasn't unlike himself to throw around a few curses when he was in the mood; though it mostly consisted of ' _bloody hell!_ ' and ' _bugger!_ '), but never stopped trying to get her to quit, "You have been informed that the letters are supposed to be placed on the board, correct?"

She knew he was taking the piss, but that didn't stop her from being snarky, "You know what Crane? I'll show you where that piece can go, you can shove it right up your-"

But before she could finish the treat, and before he could once again reprimand her profanities, her iPhone rang. The only sounds in the Archive were the three rings of her mobile as Abbie composed herself, before answering the call.

"Lieutenant Mills," her voice was level again, but she'd almost slipped up and pronounced her titled as ' _Left_ tenant' as Crane so often called her.

"No Captain, we're not doing anything. Crane's just whipping my ass at Scrabble." Ichabod's eyes followed her around the room as she pushed away from the table and stood, smiling at something Captain Irving had said. He could hear the muffled words of Irving's voice against her ear, but the sound was too quiet for him to make them out. Abbie's mouth suddenly furrowed, her full lips tightening in disapproval. Ichabod didn't miss a beat as she gave her farewells to the Captain and ended their call. He straightening in his seat, awaiting her recountment of the short conversation.

"A woman at Douglas Valley is saying she was attacked by a ghost," she made her way closer to the door, "Irving wants us to check it out. Said he'd explain everything when we got there."

He nodded and got up to follow her, closing his large book and abandoning their game. They had to make a detour to Abbie's cubicle in the station before going to her car: she'd forgotten her keys in her office desk, and needed to retrieve them.

The precinct was full to the brim today. Officers shuffled about, teaming to work on their cases or interrogate a vic. On their way out the door, Abbie's car key in hand, they were stopped abruptly in the main corridor.

Sat upon a wooden bench across from Irving's office was Jenny, her right hand cuffed to the armrest of her seat. Her curly hair was pulled back as always, along with her ever present frown. Luke was standing beside her, scowling down at her. His face softened when he looked up and saw Abbie rushing down the hallway, but tensed back up when he spotted Crane tailing behind her.

"Hey Abbie," the officer greeted, still trying to win back her favor.

Abbie ignored Luke as she jogged towards the bench her younger sister was cuffed to. "Jenny what happened?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but Luke was quicker, making ignoring his existence impossible. "This one was caught shoplifting in the Wawa downtown," he nodded to the woman sitting down when he spoke the words  _'this one'_ ; his hands were on his hips in attempt to make himself look more intimidating (to who though, Abbie wasn't sure).

Jenny didn't return her sister's gaze as she shrugged, "My finger slipped."

"I believe the word  _kleptomania_  is one you should familiarize yourself with, Miss Jenny." Crane said, disapproving as he looked down at her. After three years he'd begun to think of Jenny as a sister, always trying to look out for her, and impart wisdom when it applied.

"Not helping, Crane," Abbie said, looking over her shoulder to her fellow Witness.

Abbie turned back to her ex-boyfriend, "Uncuff her. You can deal with this later." Jenny's was a frequent face in the Sleepy Hollow Sheriff's Department after being released from Terrytown Hospital two years ago. Even though she'd only had herself arrested to keep Abbie safe from the demon Ancitif, the adrenaline fueled thrill of occasional shoplifting never left her.

"I'm afraid I can't do that." She could tell Luke was trying to keep his cool. When they'd been dating she could remember how he would have flashes of anger if he was excited too quickly.

"The key, Luke. Now."

"No way, Abbie," Luke's hands left his hips as he used them to gesture widely, "she's a convict. She's not allowed to leave the station until the report is processed."

"Look, you wanna talk to someone about this? Talk to Irving." Abbie's voice was clipped. She really didn't feel like dealing with Luke today, "She might be your convict, but she's still a consultant to the Captain." A few months after Jenny had been made a permanent member of Team Anti-Apocalypse, Irving decided it would be best she be made a consultant to the station, so she wouldn't raise suspicion when spotted around crime scenes.

"What? Like the Professor, here?" Luke turned his neck to give the Brit a once over that ended at Crane's eyes, their height differences accentuated when Luke looked up into Ichabod's face and scowled.

"Exactly like that," Abbie sneered, reaching into her pocket and using her own key to unlock Jenny's handcuffs. The younger Mills stood, rubbing at her wrist where the shackle had cut into her skin. Abbie prodded her sister to walk forward, placing a hand at the small of her back. Crane tagged along when Abbie finally turned back to Luke and said, deadpan, "Don't worry, I'll be sure she makes the court date."

 

 


	2. Under the Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie has some Crane feelings... and the story finally begins!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Another chapter!  
> This once is a lot longer than the first, so that's cool. But I'm a bit worried that Crane is getting OOC (let me know!)

_God almighty_. She wanted to run her tongue along his neck more than anything in the world.

But who could blame her? Because, in Abbie's defense, _what the fuck was the point of the First Witness being a hot-ass piece of manmeat if the Second Witness- namely herself- couldn't fuck his brains out?_ It honestly made no sense to her.

_Jesus, get a grip Abbie._

It was true that she found Crane exceedingly attractive (all sinewy muscle, and rustic features. Her kink for continuously hearing him call her 'Miss Mills' even after years of intimate acquaintanceship didn't hurt either), but she still respected the fact that he was a married man. Even if said married man's _wife_ was trapped in an endless purgatory with no means of escape.

_No, Abbie- just NO._

She wasn't going to ruin her friendship with Crane just because she thought she might love him in a non-platonic way.

"Lieutenant?"

The call of Crane's voice pulled her out of her internal soliloquy, and when she found his face she was instantly frozen once again, trapped by that damned beard of his. The length of his neck was stretched as he gazed up into the branches of a tree that stood before him, Adam's apple defined beneath the point where his facial hair ended and his alabaster skin began. As he reached up to thumb the leaves of his specimen, the fluid fabric of his billowing tunic (that he still insisted on wearing occasionally, even after she demanded he change wardrobe. She didn't want to be mean about it, but his original clothes had become rank after 3 years of nonstop action) tightening against the defined muscle of his athletic waist.

_God, he's so attractive. And he doesn't even know it._

She finally refocused on the task at hand, and found herself surrounded by a thorny bramble. Inspecting the forest above her, she could see the tell tale leathery foliage of a parasitic plant. It was the same greenery that was growing on the oak Crane stood before, as well as inside the Graham's home.

"Mistletoe?" She looked to Crane for confirmation, who nodded his head enthusiastically in return: ' _Looks like we're getting somewhere'_ , it said.

Her brow furrowed, "But mistletoe doesn't grow naturally in Sleepy Hollow, or even in the woods around it."

"Correct, Miss Mills." he nodded, congratulating her on the deduction. He returned his sights back to investigating the plant, eyes alight with the information streaming through his frankly amazing eidetic mind, "This particular brand of flora- _Viscus album-_ can only be found in Europe, as well as some parts of Asia. So the questions we should be asking are thus: _Who raises mistletoe in these woods, and for what purpose?_ "

"Purpose?" Abbie turned her eyes from Crane back to the oak being strangled by mistletoe. Behind her, Jenny was treading lightly across the woods near the police tape outlining their crime scene, trying to avoid being spotted by her sister. She plucked a leaf from the plant above her, and made her way past Captain Irving, towards the Lieutenant.

"According to various legends, mistletoe can be used as a deterrent to ward off certain demons- like a kind of shield, to protect you." Jenny pitched in, stepping across a log and joining the Witnesses.

Abbie's eyebrow arched as she cocked her head and turned to look at her sister, "I thought I told you to stay in the car?" It wasn't a question, but it sure sounded like one.

"It's been like an hour. And besides, when has you telling me what to do ever worked?"

Ichabod bowed his head, as to not tangle in a low-hanging branch, as he quickly escaped the crossfire of his bickering allies. Crane had learned the hard way not to intervene in the ' _You can't tell me how to live my life!'_ fight. Usually he would attempt to separate the siblings during a heated argument, but this bout would last no more than a few minutes: Miss Jenny would grow tired of the good Lieutenant's constant nagging, and just walk away, leaving her older sister to trail after her, shouting criticisms.

From behind the trunk of another unhealthy oak, where he could still hear Abbie's heated words, Ichabod studied the parasite clinging to the dying branches.

The squabble climaxed quicker than expected, resulting in (as anticipated) Jenny storming away from Abbie, back to the car, and Abbie shouting something about not touching the firearms in her trunk. Miss Jenny, who of course always needed to have the last word, muttered to herself that she could always use her own damn gun, she's got like twelve.

Ichabod dared to sneak a look at the fuming Lieutenant, who was cradling her forehead in her right hand, while supporting the arm with her left. She looked defeated, once again unable to go a few hours without avoiding domestics while trying to help to save the world. She composed herself with a sigh, and pushed the loose fringe of her hair away before taking the steps to stand beside Crane, unable to look away from the dirt floor.

"Alright, Lieutenant?" he asked of his fellow Witness, unable to see her distressed.

She met his face with the tug of a smile that did not quite reach her eyes, "Fine," her voice was clipped, unsteady. She cleared her throat, and took the mistletoe clipping he held in his hand; she saw him reach for it reflexively as she grabbed it from him, but he kept quiet, and said nothing to get it back.

"So," she began, twisting the twig between her thumb and forefinger, examining the small berries, "mistletoe. Wards off evil, huh? Does that include the ghost that the vic saw here in Douglas Valley?"

"Perhaps. When we first entered the Graham's home, their entryway was decorated with holly and-"

"Mistletoe." Abbie finished for him, picking up his trail. Over the past few years their minds had begun to function on the same wavelength, occasionally spooking Irving to the point of believing that a Vulcan Mind Meld had been involved (Abbie then had to explain the Mind Meld to Crane, followed by explaining Star Trek, which led to twelve hours of couchsurfing between Abbie's apartment and Crane's cabin to finish the first season of _Star Trek: The Original Series_ between bouts of saving the world. Sufficed to say that Crane left Abbie's apartment with bloodshot eyes and a much broader scope of the universe).

"Exactly. At first I had dismissed it for simple Yuletide folly, but perhaps…"

"Perhaps, Mr. Graham knows more than he says he does."

Ichabod nodded in agreement. When they interrogated the husband, Mr. Graham continuously stuttered over his words and couldn't keep his recountment straight, "It would explain why the wraith had only appeared to Missus Graham and did not attack her." The gestures he made with his clenched hands became more animated as the cogs in his mind began connecting, beginning on a new thought.

"The holiday season has barely begun, and although your generation seems to be fascinated with the idea of decorating for each new holiday the moment the former has ended: does it not seem strange to furnish for Christmas during late October?"

"Yeah, I did think it was kinda weird…" Abbie's voice petered out to a soft hum, as she looked around the crime scene. The dozen officers that still remained were interviewing the few witnesses on clarifications, while taking notes in their small books.

"Alright…" Abbie finally sighed, massaging her forehead in defeat, "Let's see what we can find back at the station. Got everything you need?"

"Indeed, Miss Mills." Crane assured her, plucking his mistletoe clipping out of her small hand and placing it into the evidence bag he'd been keeping in his coat pocket. Abbie rolled her eyes as he made a show of zipping it closed, the tug of her smile finally feeling genuine.

The ground turned from dirt to asphalt as the Witnesses made their way back to Abbie's Jeep. Abbie yawned loudly before pulling the keys from her pocket, only to ignite a similar cry from Crane. She laughed. "So, Starbuck's then?" she suggested, in the mood for a pick-me-up.

"Assuredly." Their selection of teas was sub-par, but Crane could appreciate the option of an espresso-shot on rare occasions. "Will Miss Jenny be riding back to the precinct with us?"

"You can ask her yourself, if you want," Abbie gestured to her younger sister, who Crane had not yet noticed to be splaying herself across Abbie's car, the heels of her hands behind her on the hood. Her head was thrown back in laughter at something the Captain had said. He as well was chuckling, the pearly white of his teeth happily on display, and the phone perpetually holding his attention surprisingly hidden in his breast pocket (apparently along with his ever-present scowl). Abbie had a hard time admitting that she thought Irving might reciprocate her sister's feelings for him, however hard Jenny tried to deny her own towards the Captain.

Abbie used the electronic car key to unlock the vehicle, making Jenny and Irving jump apart at the honk. Jenny scowled at her older sister, who only smirked back, Crane shaking his head in Abbie's peripheral.

"We're headed back to the precinct to do some research," the Lieutenant told her superior, stepping closer to her car as Crane climbed into to the passenger side. Abbie looked over to her sister on the hood, "Coming with?"

"Yeah," Jenny replied, jumping off the Jeep. She glanced back at Irving and smirked, ushering him out of the way, before opening the door beside him and sliding into the car.

"You're staying here, right?" Abbie asked, looking up to Irving's face as she reached for her door handle.

He nodded. "Yeah. The guys here want to look around one more time before heading back, I thought I'd stay and help."

"Alright, see you there," she waved lazily before climbing into the driver's side and starting the Jeep, its engine roaring to life beneath her.

As they pulled away from the crime scene, the forest was quickly replaced by the suburban community surrounding it. November was Sleepy Hollow's rainy season, and many of the endless potholes along the road were littered with puddles, each more dangerous to drive through than the last. Abbie tried to avoid them, but would occasionally miss one and violently rock the passengers of her Jeep, cursing and apologizing as she tried to right them again.

"Okay," Abbie started, as she turned onto Main Street, avoiding yet another hole in the road, "Jenny you seem to know the most about the mistletoe." She looked at her sister through the rearview mirror, only able to catch a glimpse of her sister's fierce eyebrows. "Care to explain?"

"Sure." Jenny cleared her throat and made herself comfortable in the limited space of the backseat (Crane liked to take up most of the space by pushing his chair all the way back, to make room for his ridiculous, spidery long legs). "Basically, mistletoe was primarily used by the Celtics to scare away any type of evil spirit: Faeries, ghosts, daemons. A lot of them hung it over their beds to scare away bad dreams."

"Like a dreamcatcher?"

"Yeah." Jenny nodded in confirmation, "But it was more than that. Other cultures around the world took to wearing talismans made of mistletoe to protect themselves from harm. Like a good luck charm."

In the corner of her eye Abbie could see Crane trying to focus, eyes closed and hands pressed together at the bottom of his nose, as if in prayer. It made Abbie grin. "You're thinking pretty hard over there. Anything you'd like to share with the class?"

The moment of study was shattered by Abbie's interruption, but Crane had gathered enough from the bowels of his memory, "I had not thought of the tale for a long time, until Miss Jenny mentioned the Celtic mythologies; but when I was young, my father once told me the story of Baldr, the Celtic god, who was defeated with an arrow of mistletoe. "

"Not that you'd need it." the younger Mills goaded, "Just fire that famous Abbie death-stare his way, and you'd be good as gold."

Abbie wanted to shoot her sister a death stare that moment, but settled for tightening her grip on the steering wheel instead, her knuckles whitening. "Care to roll back the attitude?"

"Well, just because you're the Chosen One, it doesn't mean I have to be nice to you."

"I'm not the Chosen One," Abbie scowled, finally shooting her sister a glare from the rearview mirror.

Jenny snorted, leaning back into her seat and muttered, "Close enough."

Crane shifted awkwardly when Abbie turned into the precinct parking lot. "Ergo, the employment of such a plant would make those who use it deadly to such evils." he supplied, hoping to put them back on track.

Jenny nodded from the backseat, unbuckling as Abbie pulled into her parking space, "Exactly."


	3. Coven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of this chapter was meant to be attached to the end of Chapter 2, but I felt like it was getting too long, so I cut it. I think I like it better this way.

It was four o'clock the next afternoon by the time either Witness found anything of use.

Scattered about the bookmarked pages of old texts, scrolls, and different copies of the Bible, were the empty Starbuck's cups from last night Abbie never bothered to throw away, and Chinese takeout boxes that she'd gotten delivered an hour before. Crane had refused to open his fortune cookie so Abbie took his, and enjoyed the second just as well as her first. Jenny had been with them earlier, but disappeared sometime between 2:00 and 3:00 PM (Abbie suspected it was to 'bother' Captain Irving again).

"Hey, listen to this," the Lieutenant declared, breaking the silence in the old archive.

Abbie sat perched on a bar stool behind the tall desk at the center of their office. Crane had camped out in his armchair beside the unlit fireplace. They'd moved much of the junk and dust bunnies out years ago, but it still held the same old Revolutionary charm (i.e. musty books and furniture from the Ghost of Centuries Past, as far as Abbie was concerned). She moved closer to Crane and pushed a thick book into his lap, pointing to an excerpt.

" _Wraith_." she read over his shoulder, "Popular mostly in European cultures and mythology; they are the remnants of violent souls pulled from a human body." The book's illustration depicted a frightening monster. It was the same creature that Mrs. Graham had described while her mind was still muddled from the adrenaline of almost being murdered. Before all of the Apocalypse/Horseman nonsense, this creature was once the image Abbie thought was synonymous with Death itself: a total Grim Reaper. Hood and everything, scythe not included (of course now she'd actually met Death: Abraham Van Brunt- former aristocrat and lady-killer, turned slave to Moloch- who neither carried a scythe or wore a cape).

"But this is the best part." Abbie said, finally grinning. She moved her finger and pointed to a new part of the excerpt. "Wraith kryptonyte? It's mistletoe." Kryptonyte was one of the few pop culture references Crane actually understood.

A shiver ran down Ichabod's spine as he stared into the creature's face. Underneath its black parchment hood was void. If a face had been there, he assumed it would be emaciated with age and decay. Beneath its portrait, three words were printed in a neat calligraphy.  _ANIMA QUI REPETIT_ , it read.

"Taker of souls," Ichabod muttered under his breath. His long pale finger reached out to graze the dark lettering. The page was cold under his touch- almost as if the Wraith itself had sucked all life from the harrowed pages. Around his hood, scraps of old fabric blew in the wind, remnants of the parchment cloak clasped around his neck. Crane corrected himself:  _Its_  neck. The creature was entirely gender-fluid, free of all distinctions between male and female. All possible classifications of who the soul had once belonged to were swept clean, left in the ground to rot with its body.

He quickly scanned the passage of text that continued below the drawing. The words outlined in fuller detail what Abbie had already told him, however one specific passage stuck out in his mind. He read it aloud to her.

" _As a servant to those who wield their Blade of Dominion, horde of Wraith Daemons have been known to unwillingly pillage, reap and destroy some of the most fertile nations of peoples in Covenant history- most notably, the Sisterhood of the Radiant Heart in 1749._ "

"Radiant Heart?" Abbie repeated, her brow furrowing, "Where have I heard that name before?"

"From Katrina." Ichabod told her, his face full of something unreadable, "The Sisterhood of the Radiant Heart was her Coven."

Abbie blinked, not knowing what to do.

A moment passed before anything was said between the two Witnesses. Abbie was never fully comfortable while discussing Katrina, so she carefully directed the conversation towards the passage in Crane's lap.

"So wraiths can be made into servants?"

"So it would seem." his voice was still detached, his mind elsewhere.  _Thinking about Katrina, no doubt._

"Does that mean the ghost that attacked Elizabeth Graham was really sent there to kill her?"

That pulled Crane out of his stupor.

"Miss Mills," He turned in his armchair to look up at her, the arm that his chin had been resting on was suddenly brought down to the armrest with a  _thud_. "I believe Elizabeth would be dead at his moment if it were not for the mistletoe protecting her home. Perhaps the one who possesses the Blade of Dominion wanted to murder her for some reason."

"Well it's not as if we don't know who sent them," she rolled her eyes. All this Anti-Apocalypse stuff was really tiring her out. She turned back to her stack of books, hoping to find solace in the chronicles of years gone by. "Moloch  _obviously_  needs Elizabeth and Philip dead for some reason. We just need to figure out why."

"Then I believe we owe the Grahams a visit."

Abbie grabbed her jacket from the tall coat rack, perching momentarily on tip-toes to reach the collar of her leather bomber. A grin tugged at the corner of Ichabod's mouth, once again entertained by the petiteness of his closest friend (or  _BFF_ , as Miss Mills sometimes called him). He began to button up the chest of his old overcoat- now more like a second skin,  _he never took the damn thing off_ \- as Abbie reached his side, zipping up to protect herself from the cold.

"Ready?" She asked, taking a deep breath and looking up to meet his eyes. The sides of her mouth were upturned in what he supposed was meant to be a reassuring grin. It offered no relief, but he appreciated the sentiment.

"As I'll ever be, Lieutenant," he answered, expelling a large breath as he lifted his arm, gentlemanly escorting her outside.

She blushed at the formality and took a step to exit, but not before Jenny called them back, appearing from the bowels of the Archive.

"Wait you two!"

"What is it, Jenny?" Abbie asked, huddling in her jacket to shield herself from the nippy corridor.

"Look up." A smirk played on her sister's face, as both she and Crane glanced up at the same moment. Above them, the plump white berries of a mistletoe clipping wrapped in a red bow decorated the archway of the door.

Abbie made no attempt to move away from Crane, but rolled her eyes, hoping it distracted from the blush moving further up her face and across her chest. "It's not even Christmas," Abbie deflected.

"Never too early to start!"

"Stop stealing the evidence!" Abbie shouted, before ushering a flushed Crane out the door and slamming it behind them.

The ride to Douglas Valley was quiet. Other than the hum of an alternative rock station playing quietly from the speakers, there were no sounds inside the car. Abbie let the countryside run past them as she drove, the town quickly turning to forest. Douglas Valley was a relatively new subdivision of homes at the edge of Sleepy Hollow's village proper, to where many of the town's elderly had decided to relocate in the past six months.

It wasn't so much of a secluded neighborhood, but rather a small subcommunity inside Sleepy Hollow (people around town were of course gossiping about what the group of elderlies were doing cooped up inside the gated community. Some said they were reliving the 1970's, but after meeting the Grahams, that was one image Abbie did not want to have in her mind's eye). As she drove them through the tall gates, Abbie and Crane could see the small strip of shops owned by some of the residents: grocer, clothier, the smallest post office Abbie had ever seen, and of course, Graham Antiquities.

When Miss Mills finally turned her Jeep into the car park of the strip mall, Ichabod released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Even after three years, motor vehicles were still something he had trouble with, and the motion sickness didn't help. Abbie leapt from the car as he took his time unbuckling, going over the questions he hoped to ask Mr. Graham:  _What is the purpose of the mistletoe in your home? Are you responsible for this malignancy? What say you to the Evils plaguing this town?_

Abbie reached the door to the antique shop before Ichabod, and pushed the  _Open_  door widely ajar. The interior of the store was not unlike any pawn shop Abbie had been in before: various items ranging in purpose and price, all with a fair amount of dust and holes littering them. She stood alone in the center of the shop, facing the counter, when a bell above the front door chimed. Abbie looked over her shoulder to see Crane enter. His eyes widened: eidetic memory already taking in and sorting away the items lining Mr. Graham's shelves. If there was something fishy about the Grahams, this was probably the place to go looking for evidence.

Abbie wandered around the premises, occasionally picking up or touching the less delicate wares. She noticed that a majority of the items available to touch seemed to be from the past 40 years, but along the walls ran glass domes housing items of much more prestigious value. On closer inspection of a particularly old wax doll beneath its dome, Abbie was near enough to read the ident-tag attached to her cotton pinafore: _Child's Wax Doll. Circa 1792. $1,500._

Underneath a display to the doll's left, was a crystal bowl full of spent musket shells.  _Patriot Musket Shell Casings. Hudson Valley, NY. Circa 1780. $120/shell,_ ' it read. The shells had begun to crumble and rust with age, but appeared to be well looked after; In fact, many of the Revolutionary antiquities seemed to be in much better condition than any of the other pieces of merchandise in the entire shop.

"Hey Crane," Abbie called, getting his attention. He was across the room- staring at old scarves on a horizontal rack- when he turned around. She tapped at the glass protecting the bullets, directing his view towards them. The side of her mouth tugged with a sly smile, "These yours, old man?"

She didn't wait for his reply before she giggled, but moved out of the way so he could get a better look at them. "Very amusing, Lieutenant." he humored, rolling his eyes.

Abbie grinned while wandering over to the desk, where she rang the bell next to an old register. No one answered the call.

Crane wandered behind the counter and was now poking his head behind a curtain that probably lead to the back room.

"Lieutenant," he hailed. "I believe our search has come to an end."

Abbie strode over to Crane and looked past his bent shoulder, her boots clacking on the worn hardwood flooring of the shop. Through the doorway, Abbie could see nothing more than a few spare boxes and a circular table for employees to enjoy their lunch. Behind the table was a small kitchenette: sink, counter, and refrigerator, nothing fancy. There was a window in the corner of the room, right of the refrigerator, and it was casting a harsh afternoon shadow across a length of the space.

Sitting at the break table was Mr. Graham.

He was faced away from them, and when Abbie circled the room to get a better look at his face Crane remained stock still in the doorway.

Philip's salt and pepper hair seemed to have been scattered with much more grays than the last time Abbie had seen him. The wrinkles and bags beneath his circular glasses were hollowing his face, and along with the shadow covering his body, made the old man's features look skeletal.

It reminded Crane of the wraith's nonexistent- but emaciated- face that he had invented in his mind.

"Mr. Graham?" she called to him. He gave no reaction to their presence.

"Mr. Graham, it's Lieutenant Abbie Mills from the Sheriff's department." She clarified when he didn't respond, his glazed eyes lazy and unfocused, "I interviewed you about the creature that attacked your wife a few nights ago."

She moved to pull the Glock from the holster on her right hip. Using her free hand, Abbie touched his shoulder, hoping he would turn around.

Huge mistake.

Before Abbie could react and pull away, Mr. Graham's arm shot out to seize her in his claw-like fingers. She wrestled to get free, but as she did, his strong talon nails dug into her skin and broke flesh. Her eyes flooded with tear as a shooting pain spread through her. 

Ichabod rushed to her side instantly, and grabbed hold of Phillip's wrists, trying to free his partner. It was no use. Mr. Graham's ashen face was flushed in bestial rage, his eyes no longer the pretty baby-blues Abbie had noticed two days ago: these were deranged, livid eyes. Surrounding the pupils, the color was no longer glazed, but instead the irises had turned an electric bloodshot red.

Trying to pull away from his aggressive hold turned futile, and as the blood pooling at Abbie's wrist grew more intense, Phillip's delirium grew more aggressive.

"Crane! On the back of my belt, the pepper spray! Use it!" Abbie shouted.

Crane rushed closer to her, searching for the Mace attached to her hip. When he found it at last, he freed it from behind her empty holster - gun now lost on the floor - and sprayed liberally into Graham's face.

Mr. Graham screamed, detaching himself from Abbie in an ardent attempt to nurse his burning eyes. Abbie screamed as well: residual Mace from the dispersal had flown into the gushing wound on her arm, burning down to the bone.

Crane wrapped his arms around Abbie protectively and pulled her to him, moving them to the far wall of the room. They watched Phillip writhe on the floor until he wore himself out, sagging defeatedly in weak heap.

They were both shaking, Abbie more so. The adrenaline coursing through the Lieutenant made her feel as though she might collapse. She cradled her wounded arm with her uninjured left hand. Crane's arms were still wrapped around her shoulder and waist as they attempted to catch their breath - Abbie could feel the tightness of his stomach as the muscle drew in, shuddering heavily, and then filled out again, the fabric of his tunic brushing against her back.

Abbie blinked, shaking her head. Mr. Graham was shuddering on the ground, arms cradled around himself like an untamed animal. 

"What's wrong with his eyes? Other than the Mace, I mean." Abbie asked, leaning forward to get a closer look at him. Phillip's nearly closed eyes were overflowing with tears, but the burning red of his irritated skin could not erase the dead white within them.

Ichabod retracted his arms from Abbie's waist as he stepped around her, and moved to crouch beside Mr. Graham. Crane cocked his head to the side and reached out to touch the limp, weakly twitching body. Mr. Graham moaned indecipherably.

"I believe they have taken his soul. He is still lucid, but dying slowly- I don't know how to save him..." Crane removed his hand from Phillip's shoulder, standing back up to face this partner.

Abbie's brow furrowed, "How did you notice that - that they took his soul?"

"No mistletoe. If the wraiths had managed to attack Mr. Graham here, then that means there was nothing protecting him. Perhaps he didn't know  _how_  to protect himself."

Abbie nodded. "So he didn't know anything, after all."

"No, he didn't." said a voice from behind them.

In the doorway stood Mrs. Graham, with a clipping of mistletoe in her lapel.

 


	4. Manor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lies, time travel and panic attacks...

There was a hollow silence around the break table in Phillip's shop. Neither witness nor Mrs. Graham dare speak a word as they slowly watched the last flares of life leave Mr. Graham's decrepit form. What was left of him was huddled on the ground, twitching every few seconds- the flick of his fingers the only indication that his heart still carried a pulse. After seven uninterrupted minutes of silence, the twitch stopped.

Ichabod mentally recorded the time. 6:32pm: the moment Elizabeth Graham became a widow.

Abbie sat closest to the door, a natural instinct, the reaction of fight or flight ingrained into her subconscious; if it were to be the latter, she wished for the quickest escape route. Ichabod was at Abbie's left, long legs jutting up and down rapidly beneath the table top. She wanted to reach a hand out and silence the rapping of his heal but restrained herself, allowing Crane his small vice. Elizabeth sat across from her, beside the window. The last chair sat pathetically empty, its intended occupant lying expired on the floor.

Mrs. Graham, who sat with her husband's still corpse on the ground beside her, made no attempt at conversation and waited patiently (if reluctantly) for the Lieutenant and her partner to begin their inevitable barrage of questions.

Abbie was the first to speak.

"Did you know someone was after you?"

"Yes." Elizabeth's face revealed nothing, and in the orange light of dusk, a ray of receding sunshine dashed across the room to light her aging face.

"Are you aware of  _what_  is after you?" Ichabod asked.

"I know Moloch sent his minions to kill me the night I was attacked. I know they just killed my husband." she spoke as if she were ticking items from a grocery list. "And," she turned and gave Abbie a stern once over, "I know you're more than just a police lieutenant."

Abbie tried not to appear phased. "If you knew this was going to happen, why didn't you do anything to protect Phillip? You could have given him some mistletoe, right? That's what you use to protect yourself." She nodded to the berries fastened to Elizabeth's overcoat.

Elizabeth cleared her throat, moving her hand to the wooden table top, and restlessly spread her fingers across it, clearing away nonexistent dust particles. "I did love my husband very much, but I have a  _higher purpose_. And if exposing my knowledge or identity to him would have saved his life, then allowing his death was a sacrifice I am willing to make."

"That's sick."

"That's life," Elizabeth sneered through clenched teeth.

Crane coughed. "If you don't mind my asking, what is this  _higher purpose_? Why is Moloch after you? You seem to be knowledgeable in the occult, but that is not reason enough to be considered a threat."

"It's not what I know that he's after," she said, "it's what I have hidden away."

 _What?_  Abbie searched the newly widowed woman's face for answers but found nothing. The creases and wrinkles that stretched across her face were wan with age, and the short greying bob that sat at her rounded chin shifted slightly was she turned to meet Abbie's eyes.

"You're a witch." Ichabod stated clearly, eyes widening.

She nodded. "The Sisterhood entrusted me to protect an item I keep in my possession. Moloch-" she swallowed hastily, clenching and unclenching the hand resting on the table, "He wants it. He needs it."

"Well, care to stop being vague and tell us  _what_  this mystery item is?"

Crane shot her a disapproving look, but she didn't care. She was past niceties. All Abbie wanted was to get this over with. She wanted to go home, draw herself a hot bubble bath, and not think about Moloch for the next fifty to one hundred years.

"The Morning Star." Elizabeth received only blank stares. "It was a gift from God to his Archangel Lucifer, a stone that has the ability to transcend space and time. Moloch wants it."

Ichabod nodded, attempting to put the pieces together. "Is that why the Horde of wraith deamons attacked the Sisterhood in 1749? To get the Stone?"

"No, that's not why," Elizabeth shook her head. Closing her eyes lightly, the witch lowered her head, as though it were a memory she'd prefer to not rediscover. "Rumors spread like wildfire that year; whispers in the dark. People spoke of the First Witness being brought into the world. Many tried to kill the babe but all were defeated but the Sisterhood."

"Me?" Ichabod's voice was small. Abbie could count on one hand the number of times she'd seen him cower in fright.

Mrs. Graham nodded. "In the blue moon of 1750 a mate was born, raised and sworn to protect the Witness from infancy."

"Katrina." Abbie murmured, meeting Crane's sad eyes.

She nodded again. "You married her, Ichabod. It was her duty to protect you, long before your paths ever crossed."

Abbie could see that Crane was slowly being drawn into himself, and would soon be too lost to find his way home again. His eyes were downcast, full of sadness and longing- she'd seen him this way before, when he was especially homesick or parched of his darling wife.

The Lieutenant wanted nothing more than to have the strength to pull him out again, before he drowned in his reverie. "So if Moloch wasn't looking for the Morning Star in '49 why does he want it now?" She thought perhaps changing the subject would pull him out of his funk- maybe a Cornetto when they got home, too.

"He wishes to kill the First Witness before he is borne to his proper time."

Crane sighed, "Unsurprising. Moloch seems to have an affinity for trying to kill me."

It almost made Abbie laugh how right he was- though the thought also made her want to cry. Why was it that she and Ichabod were the Chosen Two? Why couldn't the burden be carried by someone else, namely someone much stronger.

She sighed. "So what's the game plan? How do we stop Moloch from getting the Stone?"

Elizabeth grinned now. Not a reassuring, supportive grin but an abrasive, forced tug of the lips. "It's simple really." She pushed back from the table and stood, smoothing out her collar and with it, the clipping of mistletoe. It rustled as she walked around the table and into the showroom of the antiquities shop. Both Witnesses craned their heads around the door frame to see what the witch was doing. There was a fierce rumbling, followed by a crack, and from beneath the floorboard of her shop Elizabeth pulled a brick-sized mahogany box, blithely wrapped in a deep crimson velveteen sash.

Setting the box upon their table, she remained standing and began mechanically removing items from the case. A small glass vial of a curious blue substance. Deerskin surgical gloves (which Mrs. Graham did not put on, but instead bypassed and laid on the table beside Ichabod). And lastly, a baleful looking syringe- empty- but Abbie assumed that was what the blue tonic was for.

"It's simple," she repeated, nodding to Abbie, "Miss Mills will be suspended using the Stone, and placed in a time more apt for stopping Moloch from retaining the Dagger. Without it, he will have neither the power or ability to steal the Stone from the Sisterhood."

Ichabod squinted his eyes and cocked his head to the side as Elizabeth began assembling her needle, blue tonic being sucked into the syringe.

"Do I get any say in this?" Abbie questioned, backing up in her chair as Elizabeth neared her, syringe in hand. "Because I really don't have  _any_ inclination to go time travelling."

"I'm sorry Miss Mills, the decision has been made for you."

"By who?"

"By the Sisterhood." Elizabeth said plainly.

And then the witch was upon her, syringe stabbing into Abbie's forearm before either the Lieutenant or Crane could register that the witch had moved.

"What is that?" Ichabod shouted, as the needle was ripped from Abbie's flesh once more and the power of a foreign tonic in her veins began to surge towards her heart.

"Something to help her sleep, I assure you."

Abbie opened her mouth but already her tongue felt like drying cotton against her lips, "I don't want to sleep," she managed.

Elizabeth cocked her head and grinned, feigning confusion, "Well it's too late to back out now, you're already halfway there."

"What does that mean?" Abbie questioned. Her head was beginning to spin.

"Twenty minutes ago, when you entered my shop. I enacted the Stone the moment you crossed the threshold."

"You're insane."

"On the contrary, Miss Mills, I knew you would not go willingly, but this mission is one that must be completed by the Second Witness."

Forcefully, Abbie pushed herself from the table, trying to distance herself from the witch. Upon standing however the world tilted and blood rushed from Abbie's head. Crane rushed to her side, though not quickly enough to sustain her entire body weight. They crashed to the floor together, his arms protectively wrapped around her waist as she gasped up at the witch's face.

Mrs. Graham towered over them, magic like a flame emulating from the tips of her fingers, outstretched from the rest of her body. From beneath her crisp collar Elizabeth pulled the Stone, gleaming bright in all its glory, crimson against its shining gold chain. Her being glowed with it. Elizabeth's eyes, previously blue were now flames as well, a surging force pulsing in time with the slowing beat of Abbie's heart.

"You will know the Bringer of Light, Grace Abigail Mills." she said, "If you do not succeed: Death, Pestilence, War, Famine- all will follow in your wake. If the Witness dies before he is borne, all will be lost."

Above the bellowing of Crane's impossibly loud voice trying to resurrect his partner, Elizabeth's managed to be velveteen soft; caressing Abbie into a placid stupor. Abbie reached up, trying to fight off her inevitable sleep. Grasping above her, she tried to make contact with the edge of the table and pull herself up again. The world tilted and rocked as she felt herself hitting something hard: she lost her grip on the wooden surface and had fallen hip first onto the unpolished plywood floor. Hard ground met Abbie's face in a painful haze.

The only thing she could see as her vision began to tunnel were the dead grey eyes of Mr. Graham laying beside her, life stolen from his features. The last thing she could find herself holding onto were Elizabeth's vague instructions as the Lieutenant felt the world leaving her. But she couldn't fight the current anymore, and as Abbie's eyes finally closed she felt herself delve into a long desired rest.

Everything was black. Crane's voice faded into the distance. Elizabeth's words held in the center of Abbie's receding consciousness.

" _You must destroy the dagger before it is too late._ "

And then, Abbie's heart stopped beating.

* * *

There was a hostile pounding in her brain as Abbie pushed away the comforter, almost as if someone was deliberately pouncing on her head.

 _Too many vodka-tonics?_  Jenny would say not enough will power.

There was way too much light shining in through the curtains of Abbie's bedroom, and she supposed that she must have either slept through her alarm or not even bothered to set it, because the sun never normally shone through her window during her normal wakeup call at 6 am.

Actually. Come to think of it, she never remembered the sun  _ever_  shining through her window, in the whole history of living in her South-facing apartment.

So... this wasn't her apartment then? Maybe she had been with Crane and crashed at his, this wouldn't be the first time that's happened. But. She also didn't remember ever having anything to drink. Or doing anything at all after leaving Graham Antiquities.

No. Not leaving.

Blacking out.

Abbie shot up in the foreign bed, attempting to gauge her location as quickly as possible. All four walls of the modest and unfamiliar bedroom were beige and void of any decoration- save for a wood-framed oil painting (the piece was a landscape of Tarrytown Lakes, a local nature reserve not far from Jenny's old ward. At the moment, Abbie deemed it unimportant, but would probably go back to it later) that hung on the left of a simple white door.

At her right was a bed identical to hers, made and ready for its owner to climb in and get a night's rest. At the foot was a simple wooden chest, also identical to her own, emblazoned with the initials  _V.S.F._ in the same place that hers were written as  _G.A.M_.

 _Grace Abigail Mills_. The fleeting memory of Elizabeth shouting her name felt like a thousand knives flirting across Abbie's back, leaving a path of stinging flesh in their wake. Beneath her cotton shift, her skin finally began to feel the penetrating winter air seeping through the small window of her bare-bones room, making her feel naked to the world.

Racing to the window, Abbie attempted to not trip over herself as she latched onto the low windowsill, peeking outside.

" _Holy shit._ "

Her breathing suddenly became ragged as she frantically tried to calm down. Her grip on the windowsill puttied, sliding down the wall and folding into herself; the white of her shift dramatically ghostlike against her dark and sunkissed skin.

 _Was this a dream?_  No it couldn't be. Even when she'd visited Purgatory in her dreams, there was always the smallest inkling that she could escape, that she could find her way home again. This was completely real. Her skin itched under the nightgown, eyes adjusting painfully under the almost-light of the early morning sun. Over stimulation was something she'd never be used to, her whole being screaming at her to go somewhere familiar, anywhere that wasn't here.

 _Anywhere but here_.

She turned over her shoulder and peeked out the window again, hoping the world had vanished.

It hadn't. The modest dirt road still remained, where it was lined with sickeningly lovely white and blue flowers, still somehow alive in the dead of winter. A chicken, an honest to God  _chicken_ made its way across the dull grass as a maid followed the bird's tail, carrying a basket of linens under her arm. Her dark skin contrasted against her dress as Abbie's did, but instead of a night shift, she was outfitted in a plain sienna work dress; the empire waistline cut off by the starched apron at her hips.

 _No. No. No._  This couldn't be happening.

She couldn't escape Graham Antiquities but she could escape this. Flight, it was.

The rush of adrenaline surging through her veins pushed her forward as she flung herself at the door and tore it open, dashing out into the hall.

It was dark here, maroon walls not yet lit by the light of day.

She escaped the room from the right of the hall and continued to run through the Georgian style house until she reached a flight of stairs, nearly tipping over the banister.

She ran down the steps, dashing past dozens of well furnished rooms, all full of mahogany furnishings and master works of art, not unlike the piece hanging in her own room. The house was a blur in her mind however, and Abbie feared that she would continue to sprint never finding an escape, until a pounding force stopped her abruptly; grabbing her by the forearms as she crashed into the immovable chest that hollowed with a sudden thud of gravely breath.

The voice was boisterous enough that she'd know it anywhere. The piercingly blue eyes however, leered at her with a nervous restraint Abbie hoped she'd never have to endure again.

"Miss Mills, are you quite all right?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a while... I've had some major writer's block


	5. Old Love

 

 

 

"Crane!" Abbie respired, leaning into Ichabod's space and hanging onto his clothed wrists like a vice; the brass buttons of his new black Colonial garb making her eyes land on his firm chest. "This is really freaking me out and we need to leave  _now_."

He chuckled, looking into her face. It was a strong and jovial sound, one that she could feel throughout his diaphragm as it escaped his lips, "Why do you speak thus? With such strange inflections, like an accent; I do not understand. Are you playing some sort of game with Verity again? You must tell me of it."

Her heart sunk. " _What?_ " She staggered a bit where she stood, unable to keep her balance- the long night shift billowing blithely about her feet and making her stumble.

"Are you unwell?" He reached out, making to grab for her forearm. Abbie tried to pull away. This wasn't time for his joking around- they needed to get back to Graham Antiquities and kick Elizabeth's teeth in for stabbing Abbie in the arm, among other things. The growing list in Abbie's mind was already pretty long.

"I'm fine." She staggered again. This time a pang of vertigo hit the Lieutenant, body betraying her by losing balance and seeking Crane's chest as a suitable port to lean upon.

"You most certainly are not  _fine_ , you're- oh my." Ichabod's eyes had trailed down her form and opened widely when they reached her unbridled bosom; they quickly snapped up again, but this time failed to keep eye contact with her as he blushed like a loon.

"You're not even properly dressed!" He wheezed anxiously, looking around for a moment. His flush abated after leaving Abbie's unkempt form, but all the while he searched for another soul among the throng of rooms surrounding them. "Verity!" he yelled, "Miss Freeman!" No answer.

"Cyrus!" Ichabod called again, his strong treble carrying through the halls. A voice did not call back, but from down the corridor Abbie and Crane could hear the quickening taps of feet upon the floorboards, rushing towards them.

"Ichabod, my love!" hailed a voice before them. Katrina turned the corner and descended towards the Witnesses, her decadent skirts flowing behind her like a tail, "You sounded distressed; what ails you?"

Crane lit up at the appearance of his wife (and Abbie stared like an idiot), his back unconsciously straightening and making Abbie's slouch against him a commodity no longer available.

"It was Abbie," he said, still holding the short Lieutenant by her shoulder and showing off her flushed skin to Katrina.

"Oh my dear Abbie!" Katrina cried, words like sweet honey dripping from her lips- Abbie always hated honey. Ichabod's wife stepped closer, inspecting her, "Are you ill?"

"No!" Abbie curtly answered the same moment Crane said "Yes."

The Lieutenant turned her head back to stare at Crane's face incredulously. She hated when people spoke for her (and was relatively certain Ichabod already knew that; he tried his hardest to accommodate her pet peeves, so long as she respected his).

He stared down at her as well, eyes squinting in displeasure for a contemplative moment, and then looked back up to Katrina. "Yes, she  _is_. Dearest, have you seen Verity or Cyrus? I was hoping one of them could lead Miss Mills back to the service quarters for a lie-down until she recovered."

Abbie scowled. The couple's endearments felt like bile in her throat.

"I believe Cyrus is in the stable tending to the horses with Gideon. And the last I saw of Verity, she was with the livestock, finishing her morning ablutions."

Crane sighed, his smile tight as he placed a gentle hand at the small of Abbie's back and attempted to shuffle her down the hall. "Thank you Katrina. I'll lead Miss Mills to bed."

Katrina tutted, walking towards her husband and herding Abbie into her own arms, "Don't be silly, Ichabod. I will lead Abigail to bed and  _you_ shall go to breakfast. I will meet you there shortly."

Abbie didn't have the strength to stomach an interjection, for when she took the smallest step forward, the vertigo was upon her again- the rush and unease of her unbalanced feet forcing her knees to collapse beneath her. And as quickly as she had lost consciousness in the witch's shop, Abbie's eyes closed and she couldn't help but wish that this was all just another horrible, shared, magically induced hallucination.

* * *

It wasn't a hallucination.

It was real.

The new, overwhelming heat of the bedroom beguiled her into consciousness, skin looking stretched and steamy with sweat. And when Abbie opened her eyes she could finally see the hot fire that she'd felt dance across her eyelids. She pushed off the bed and stood, panicked, the vibrancy of the flames making her pupils contract in pain while she watched them flicker and thrive upon the billowing skirts beneath her. She felt no heat however; and as she touched her own skin to test her somatosensory, she felt nothing but icy chill. Goose bumps rose on her body, the hair on her arms perking from her own cold touch.

The hell-scape extended around her on all sides, seemingly forever, but Abbie had never felt more claustrophobic. Behind the licking flames covering each wall of her horribly bare new bedroom, the fire had engulfed the drapes, and was now eating her linens and tarring the spotless white paint.

Only the modest door leading into the hall remained unscorched by the inferno. Abbie hoped to race towards it, and as her legs began to move of their own accord, the soles of her feet were scorched and blistered by the burning heat of a coal floor. Abbie cried out, her eyes flooding with tears. Any slight movement felt like a blade in the ball and heel of her foot.

Deciding scarred feet were better than burning alive, Abbie risked the injury and ran for the untouched door. The exit stood closed, silver handle shining flirtingly in front of her. Grabbing for it like the answer to her prayers, the moment that polished handle touched her skin, an intensely crude burst of ice shot from Abbie's cold hand and encapsulated the doorknob, the sudden chill feeling like 100 below in the heat of the room. Throughout the cracks and edges of the door, Abbie's touch ignited a spread of arctic frost, surrounding the post and lintel with a white rime.

She was the winter, scaring away the murderous flames. The pain of her feet subsided and was replaced with a dull numb, the place where her toes touched the floor now a slick iced pathway, stretching as far as the bed behind her. The walls erupted in an icy frost, the fire that plagued them extinguished and replaced with Abbie's snow. As the chill reached the tops of the walls, icicles began to form and drop down from the ceiling like stalactites.

A shiver ran down Abbie's spine. Here, in the cold, she felt naked and afraid. The only time she remembered feeling this way was in the woods with Jenny; energy drained and stockings ripped on the dirt floor after waking up in front of the Four White Trees. A shiver had run through her then, paralyzing her with fear and instilling a trepidation of the frigid cold far within her soul. She reached out for the doorknob, tapping at it with the palm of her hand to loosen the lock in from the ice surrounding it. It barely budged, the metal clinging to itself.

As she gripped it with both hands, willing it to open as she pulled, full force. As she worked it open, the candles around her began to go out. The room faded into darkness and now, in the black, she felt more alone than ever. The handle remained locked. She wanted to bang on the door and demand that someone release her from the prison she was in; throw herself upon the wood until it opened. Hitching up her skirts, Abbie backed away and readied herself to kick at the exit- she would force her way through the ice.

She hit it; the impact of her bare foot on the wood shot through her leg and stung at the bone.  _It was better than dislocating a shoulder_ , the Lieutenant thought, glad that she'd been trained in forcing her way passed bolted locks. It budged. She kicked again, and this time the lock rattled. Her energy was beginning to drain. Steadying herself, Abbie prepared for one last punt at the door. The old wood splintered outward when she kicked it, fresh air rushing into the bedroom and filling her lungs as she pushed open the door with both hands, stepping into the hall. It felt like a victory, but she couldn't allow herself to smile. There was far more at stake than just opening a door.

Goosebumps rose on her flushed skin again as she entered the service wing. Inside her bedroom the sound of crackling candlelight had covered the void of silence, but in the hall there was nothing to fill the emptiness in her ears. Moonbeams streaked the corridor, lighting her way as Abbie walked through the hall with no particular destination in mind. Old, rotting boards beneath her feet croaked and creaked as she padded over them, bare toes cold on the dead wood.

An undulating hum broke the silence, and an unmistakable breadth of energy swept past her, coming from the far end of the hallway. The vocal tones were rhythmic, musical, hypnotic. From so far away the notes formed no distinct words, but even so, parables of old flirted against her ears; a Siren's song, luring her closer. Abbie's feet began moving before she willed them to, taking it upon themselves to bring her closer to the sweet and alluring vocalities. She stopped before a grand wooden door, snug between the eave and southmost wall of the house. Against the wall at her left stood a lightly ticking grandfather clock, his usually loud clicks drowned out by the voices inside the room. Female voices it seemed, all either alto or soprano, their harmonies and consonance lulling Abbie into a stupor, not paying attention to her surroundings any longer. It may have been hours she stood before that closed door, unaware of any passage of time, and paying attention only to the stories those voices weaved together; tales of religion and sacrifice. None was in English, but Abbie knew perfectly well what they spoke of.

The beautiful crescendo of sound, a climax to their splendor, was interrupted by the chimes of the old grandfather clock. Twelve times it rang, calling for midnight- the Witching Hour- and releasing Abbie from her trance. A shuffling of feet could be seen beneath the door. The orange glow of candlelight momentarily interrupted by the quick flash of feet upon the floorboards inside the mysterious room.

She needed to see inside. She needed the know the secret of their Siren song. Reaching for the handle, this door gave up much less of a fight than Abbie's had. It swung open before she'd even had a chance to touch it, revealing inside seven women sitting around a circular table. Sparse candles were lit, each made with black wax and flickering blithely about the dark room, barely illuminating the small space. The women wore hoods to cover her respective faces, each in a fiercely red velvet, the color of blood.

They moved in tandem, each looking up from the table as one; hands clasped together, eyes entirely white and glazed over. In the center of the table, across from where Abbie stood in the doorway, was Katrina, her pale eyes glinting against the flickering candles, tense and threatening. Beside her, Elizabeth Graham, young and murderous in her scarlet hood.

Each turned their head to meet Abbie's face in the doorway, piercing through her with their gazes. And the seven women said all together, droning and assertively, " _Abigail!_ "

* * *

"Abigail!" Crane shouted again, lightly shaking Abbie's shoulder against her mattress, willing her awake.

The right side of her face felt slick and hot, probably covered in an unattractive trail of slobber that had landed there during her dream.  _Way to go Abs, real cute._  Eyelashes fluttered against her cheekbones, opening slowly in the daylight of her room. She brought a hand to her face and wiped self consciously at the trail of spit she thought might have been at her mouth. It was dried at her lip, but she tried her best to get rid of it. It really was unseemly to walk around with a saliva covered face. Her mouth was dry, and as she sat up in bed, a terrible headache revealed itself in the front of her brain.

"Brilliant, you've woken." Crane was sitting at the side of her bed, knees facing away from her and towards the wall on her left.

"Yeah, sorry about that… The whole spazzing thing... and then the whole, passing out thing."

"You really have begun to speak in the strangest dialect Miss Mills, I do not know where you learn these things. Perhaps in one of the many books you always seems to be carrying around. One of these days you must share your findings with me, I do so love to expand my knowledge, you know."

Her face grew a bit too hot for her liking, and she was sure a hard flush was racing across her cheeks. He couldn't just  _say_  things like that and expect her to not assume he's flirting.

There had been a time where she thought her feelings may not have been unrequited. It was the way that he touched her sometimes, and in such quantities. And maybe he  _did_  flirt with her, if that was possible for Crane. Did he flirt?  _Decidedly not_ , he'd said when she'd raised the question. He thought it was unseemly and rude. " _One should go through such practices with respect and decorum. Your generation is far too frivolous with their emotions. Discotheques? Disgustingly unsanitary_." (For the rest of her life should would always be able to look back and remember Crane's face when they entered a 21-Only club on the campus of a local university for a case, he'd  _visibly_  cringed. It was hilarious.)

She snorted, "We're both a bit busy for that, don't you think?" Fighting evil didn't really allow for much down time (except for the rare Scrabble game, which she  _always_  seemed to be losing).

"I am positive we could find time; the drudgery of revolutionism allows for it I'm sure. General Washington has consented me a fortnight of leave before our travel southward to Hudson Valley."

She frowned.

"Now you must find your strength again. It had disappeared most suddenly, but I know it remains somewhere within your soul, shining bright as always."

"I'm fine Crane, truly. I suppose I have just been tired." she said, trying to sound as convincing as possible. "Go down to breakfast, be with your wife."

He gave her a wry grin, it twisted his face in a way she was sure was unintentional, full of something she didn't understand, as if he was restraining himself from actually laughing at what she'd said. "As you wish, Miss Mills," he conceded, pushing against his knees to help himself stand. "When you regain your will, perhaps you may help Verity with the menial work this evening."

He straightened the collar of his black jacket. His hair was clean and pulled back with a thin ribbon. She liked seeing him this way; in his own clothes again, and so  _clearly_  in his element. Comfortable being at home. She hated to admit it, but that was never something she overtly saw in his behavior back in the 21st century. Her frown deepened. She was alone here, and this was not the Crane she knew. This was a soldier, a professor, a  _husband_.

He filled the glass on her table from the ceramic pitcher beside it, nodded once, and exited the room. She sighed.

Her gaze fell upon the wooden chest at her foot of her bed, which she assumed carried her worldly belongings. Pushing aside her blankets, Abbie climbed out of bed and padded the short ways to its foot, kneeling before the box. The initials stamped on its surfaces glared at her, heavy set in the wood, crafted masterfully so time would not wash away the letters. Their existence anchored her here as well, proof that this was where she was to belong.

She found nothing of significance inside besides multiple dresses, modest in both cloth choice and cut; work kit, undoubtedly suited for a servant.

At the bottom of the trunk however, when she'd removed each item of clothing, Abbie found a jagged slip of parchment, no bigger than the length of her hand.

_GAM- You are alone,_ it read in a neat calligraphy,  _Do your will. - ELIZABETH._

 

 


	6. New Allies (Redux)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this chapter since I hated the last version. Here you go ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i guess i'm reviving this fic? hang in there yall it's gonna be a bumpy ride

Abbie sighed at the note, and rubbed a palm against her tired eyes. _Alone_. Alone in this fucking place. That wasn’t her Crane downstairs, and these weren’t her clothes that she was wearing, and she was so out of her depth.

Find the dagger.

Destroy the dagger.

Save the world.

Easy stuff.

Oh, and don’t get distracted by the man downstairs who looks exactly like your best friend but has no idea who you actually are. She would get sidetracked by allowing herself to give him attention. This wasn’t her Crane. This wasn’t her world. This wasn’t her anything, besides a mission.

She had a task list. She would take things one step at a time. Now, since Abbie had no idea where the dagger ought to be, and had no idea where she might start looking for it, it seemed that her immediate course of action would be to do as Crane had of asked her. She was to go downstairs and be a servant.

Abbie scoffed.

As a black woman in the eighteenth century (though she was apparently a free woman) there was very little chance for her to have been successful enough to be considered a guest in the Crane’s home. Ichabod had come from English bureaucrats. And even though he’d been estranged from his conservative father in the New World, he was a captain in the Continental Army. This title gave him respect and status, and not — Abbie suspected — that Crane would care what others thought of him, but to be seen offering a place under his roof to her — even as a free woman **—**  seemed somehow out of place in Abbie’s mind. She remembered how much Crane respected Cicero, but would he have kept Arthur Bernard beneath his roof?

Sadly, Abbie suspected not; the pressure from non-abolitionists (racists) probably overshadowing Ichabod's own predilection towards human respect and decency.

So. She was to be a maid. Great, it’s not like she hasn’t been cleaning up after Crane for the past three years anyway. _Okay, that was mean_. But to be honest, for the first couple of months Crane had really made a mess of her apartment whenever he came over. Abbie guessed it was mostly because he was so busy exploring everything in front of him, that he didn’t even notice the mess he’d left behind.

Abbie bit at her bottom lip. She missed Crane so much. Even though he had been sitting beside her less than ten minutes ago, that wasn’t _her_ Crane. Her Crane was curious about the smallest, most insignificant little things, and would light up at any new discovery. He was of course acclimated to the twenty-first century after being immersed in it for three years, but it still surprised Abbie when his eyes would light up at the modern things she always took for granted. He would smile up at her, in that bright way he had, and Abbie could never help but smile back, as her heart warmed and her stomach turned to mush.

But her Crane was not here. And she had no idea how to find the dagger. So she did all that she could do at the moment: she dressed.

The petticoat she found wasn’t too hard to navigate, but the stay was difficult to lace and tighten without help (she had experience with corsets, thanks to an adventurous week with Luke about five years ago, but still). It was constricting and uncomfortable, and Abbie didn’t know how she’d get any housework done with this bitch of a busk cutting into her sides. She’d never missed a bra so much in her life, and that was really something she never thought she’d say.

The frock she donned was simple and perfunctory; she didn’t want to deal with the dress she’d seen with twenty fasteners down the back. In the looking glass, she looked quite modest, and as Abbie pulled her hair into a demure bun high on her head, the sienna cotton of her shift was lit by the sun streaming through her small window.

The rays exposed small specks of dust floating blithely about her face. It was the smallest things, it seemed, that made her long for home she realized, as she wiped at her nose. Flecks of dust floating in the air, reminding her that this place was real too.

Blinking, Abbie turned back to the trunk to reorganize all of the belongings she had taken out to look at. The richest piece of clothing in it had been a cloak of scarlet wool broadcloth; well crafted, sturdy material that held heavy in Abbie’s hands. The brilliant red fabric seemed too ostentatious for church wear, but the quality was even better than the sunday-bests that she had found. The hood billowed fully around her face, tying off at the neck where it connected with a metal clasp, the handsome closures made from silver and surrounded by filigree. There was something familiar about the cloak she thought, as she ran her hands over it, but she couldn’t discern from where.

The queer thing however, was that as Abbie held the cloak over her shoulders and adjusted it to sit comfortably, she noticed in the mirror a clipping of mistletoe no bigger than two fingers pinned to the cloth at her left breast. Shrugging the thing off, Abbie took the cloak in her hands and ripped away the mistletoe. _Fuck you_ , she thought, which was ridiculous because she was cursing out an inanimate object. But it wasn’t just the mistletoe she was angry with. The Lieutenant - though she wasn’t _really_ a lieutenant anymore, and that angered her too - was mad at Elizabeth for cursing her here. And she was mad at Moloch for being a melodramatic bully. And she was even mad with Crane for not being here with her, which wasn’t fair of her to think. She knew if Crane had a choice, he’d be here too. _Together always_ , he’d said. And she believed it.

She had to pull herself together, she was a fucking Witness of the Apocalypse, for God’s sake. Abbie stood up straighter, taking the mistletoe in hand, and using the pin attached to fasten the talisman to her breast.

She looked tired but capable. It would have to do.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There were three people in the kitchen when Abbie finally found it.

She figured she should be looking for Verity, who Crane had mentioned to her. So far the only people Abbie had seen was the young servant girl this morning, and the Cranes themselves. She went in search of the girl. But the hallways of the house were a giant maze, and Abbie cursed the architect, because if it would take her more than twenty minutes to find anything else in this house she might possibly explode. So when she stumbled upon the kitchen and remarked the three people inside, she sighed in relief. All three pairs of eyes lifted from their own tasks to look at her.

The girl was one of them; and she must have been in her twenties, for when she looked up, a smile came over her dark face that was unmarred by age and could only be assigned to untamed youth. The natural hair pinned to her head bobbed when she moved, putting down the needlework in her hand.

“Abbie!” she squealed, bouncing from her seat. She was tall and lithe, very beautiful. Lush lips and an angular face, like a cherub, who had lost her wings. "Feeling better, then?" she asked, and there was a lilt to her voice, a melody.

“She’s fine,” came a second voice, a large woman of indeterminate age, though much older than Abbie herself, “stop crowding her.”

"Sybil, please,” the girl laughed, cocking her head in feigned exasperation, “My only friend was on the verge of _death_ , I was worried for her. You can hardly blame me for being happy when I find she is once more in good health!"

"It’s fever season,” Sybil said blandly. Her small, wrinkled hands lowered a soups spoon down into a copper pot simmering on a stove. They had grown spotty in her old age, but her wide, dark nose and amber eyes spoke to a certain wisdom. She tutted over the pot, “Nothing to get worked up over.”

“Abigail has a history of working herself too hard,” the last said, his old mouth curving up into a smile. “I, myself, was worried for her well being.”

The girl grinned, glad that someone was on her side. She looked to Sybil, smug, “See. Papa agrees with me.”

The girl’s father shook his head, smiling at his child, the receding hair that grew upon it struck through with curling white and grey. His physique was unlike Sybil’s small, compact frame and his daughter’s lithe, but somewhere in between; strong, muscular, _able_ shoulders, but a stomach that was large and portly. Possibly too much of Sybil’s cooking; even from where Abbie stood in the doorway the aroma of a heavy, fattening supper wafted through the air.

“Yes, well,” Sybil harrumphed, her shoulders straightening as she looked to Abbie, “Good you’re better. Verity can’t do it all by herself. And neither can Cyrus.”

There was a silence, and they all looked to Abbie as if they expected her to say something; perhaps of gratitude for their well-wishes of her returning to health, but she couldn't think of a thing to say. Actually, she felt a bit ill again, perhaps it would show in her face and she could pass off her silence as a relapse of poor constitution.

The girl, Verity, took that as her cue, and took Abbie by the arm. She rushed out of the kitchen, with Abbie in tow, leaving her father and Sybil behind. She smiled large, hoping the cheer Abbie up, even in the prospect of work. “We’ve a lot to do today,” she said, grinning, “I was told Gideon requires our help in the shed.”

The shed, it turned out, was a relatively new looking edifice, attached to a much larger stable at the edge of the Crane’s property. The walk there took no more than ten minutes at a slow pace, from where the house stood at the centre of the modest lot of land. There was a sharp chill in the air but no wind blew, and Verity found herself quite content idly chatting with Abbie about nonsensical things like house gossip and chores, for which Abbie could only provide monosyllabic and/or vague responses when she had no real answers to give.

Abbie thought she could like Verity. She was a bit like Jenny, even their physicality showed resemblances. They were both sharp tongued and fierce, laughed easily and heartily. But where Jenny had abandoned idealism at a young age due to reasons beyond her control, Verity was able to walk confidently with a blithe skip in her step.

Verity had never felt heartbreak, of this Abbie was sure.

It hurt her own heart a bit more, seeing a woman so close to her own sister’s age, but with all of the joy Jenny abandoned so early. Verity smiled at Abbie, looking down at her short companion as they approached the stable — that smile hurt, too.

The earthy smell of horse manure and hay immediately filled their noses when they were within a ten yard range. The stable was built of reliably strong wood, but visibly revealed its age in certain places. At the farthest corner from where the women stood, at the west most point of the structure, was a small shelter. It was perfunctory and stable, as if assembled in a hurry by a master carpenter.

Verity approached and knocked at the door. “Gideon?” she said, rapping slightly, her cheek pressed against the sanded wood. After a moment there was still no answer. Verity smiled lightly, “Never know where that boy is,” and pushed through the unlocked entryway, walking into the shadow of Gideon’s shed.

It was dark inside, and still as frigid as the outdoors. Abbie waited at the threshold for a moment, staring at Verity as she openly walked through the man’s home (or whatever it was).

“S’alright,” she said, looking back at Abbie, “come in. Papa says we have to dress the horses for winter today, I just have to get the blankets.” Abbie nodded, crossing her arms over her chest, and stepped inside. The very bottom of her long skirt trailed on the dirt floor.

The interior of the shed held an eclectic collection of belongings: wood carvings and ceramics and furniture that didn't match; assorted paraphernalia collected through travel, seemingly unrelated to one another but obviously all chosen by the same meticulous eye. There was a small bedsit in one corner, though hardly big enough for a grown man, and Abbie couldn’t imagine sleeping here in colder months. Beside it an equally small table. Three chairs sat before a dining table, and there was a window in the opposite corner. None of the furniture was designed the same, as if they’d each been taken from a different set. Only one of the chairs looked recently disturbed.

In all of this, it was the sketches sitting on the table that really caught Abbie’s eye. She moved closer, fanning out the small stack of portraits across the tabletop. There was one of Cyrus, and one of Sybil, and one Abbie suspected to be a self portrait, for she’d never seen the subject before. Surprisingly there was even one of Crane; done in a hurry with fast, deft penciled lines, as if the model was anxious to move.

Beneath this was a drawing of Verity, her angular face depicted in light, quick strokes that curved and arched into her likeness. Special care had been taken with that one, and it was an incredible rendering. It wasn’t just a flawless copy of Verity's beauty, but a tribute to the palpable mischief in her eyes.

Verity had found the horses’ turnout coats and placed them on the floor beside Abbie, walking up to the table and looking down at the drawings. She reached for the bottom of the stack and pulled out the one Abbie had decided was Gideon.

The eyes were too big to be a real likeness, like he’d been leaning forward into a looking glass as he drew himself and made the proportions too big; but there was an urgency within them, a desperation. Those were the eyes of an artist. As Abbie observed her, Verity looked into them as if they were the only eyes she ever wished to see again.

Abbie smiled.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Crane was much easier to talk with than originally anticipated.

Abbie had feared that seeing him again might cause her heart to break. That morning, when Crane had sat with her, a physical pain so strong had engulfed her heart, a consumption of the soul. Because, to look into those all-seeing, wise blue eyes and to see nothing but indifference reflected in them would have been too much for her to bear.

That afternoon she had been told by Sybil to deliver Ichabod’s tea to the library. She might have refused, due to her already bad experiences with the twists and turns of this house, but the library was not fifty feet from the kitchen, and Abbie had no better excuse than not wanting to lay eyes on her ‘employer’.

Taking up the serving tray which Sybil had laid out for her, Abbie began slowly and carefully making her way to the library. Through the hall windows, Abbie could see the setting sun reflecting on the glass pane, almost gone in the pale winter sky.

The door to Crane’s study was opened slightly when she reached it, as if to invite her inside. Pushing it open with her hip, Abbie slipped into the room to find Ichabod pouring himself over papers. Maps and charters and forms were strewn about, a clipping from an abolitionist pamphlet tacked to a bookshelf beside him. His long hair had escaped its ribbon, flying free at his cheeks, and was haphazardly pushed back behind one ear. He looked flushed, despite the chill in the air.

Abbie hazarded a step further, floorboards creaking beneath her feet. He looked up.

“Abigail,” he sighed, relieved. Abbie brushed it off as his desperation for the tea she’d brought him (he got that way sometimes, desperate for caffeine, just like the modern addict). He set down his files, walked over to her, and was at her side when she placed to tray at the corner of his desk.

“I’ve brought you tea,” she said, stating the obvious, and began to pour it for him as Sybil so thoroughly reminded her (as if she’d forget after the third time she’d said it).

“Yes. Yes, thank you,” he said, smiling knowingly, as if just her presence had brought it on. He leaned closer, his neck bending as he reached for the teacup and took it, black. “Delicious as always,” he said after a sip.

She smiled wryly, “Thank Sybil, not me.”

“On the contrary Miss Mills, I must thank you for this lovely spread,” he gestured to the plate of biscuits that she’d arranged into a small circular pattern while trying to distract herself as he stood beside her. She blushed. “I don’t know how you do it,” he continued, “running all over the place, keeping this house in order.”

“It’s my job.” It wasn’t, really.

Ichabod set the tea cup down with the soft clink of china against wood, staring at his hands. “Miss Mills—  Abbie,” he corrected, “You know how much it means to me that you have remained here, even after... well, _after_.” He was speaking of something she had no knowledge of, an incident that just the mention of spread a bashful and guilty flush across his cheeks.

He looked as if he were asking for forgiveness; his head bowed, fingers rapping at the desktop, repentant. If he thought she was being callous, all he would long for was absolution. He always did hate being on her bad side. She looked at her own hands, folded on the tabled, close to his.

“It’s alright,” she said.

She didn’t know what she was forgiving him for, but his face cleared and he looked weightless, as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. A small smile rose on his lips, and he nodded in thanks. She waited to be dismissed or given other instructions, but he said nothing else, only smiled as he went back to his work. She took that as a sign, and left the study, finding that her own lips were tugging up into a smile.

If this was a bridge crossed for him, perhaps in this moment, she could cross one of her own as well.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been one day and I'm already breaking my outline! -- so i cut off the end of this chapter, and i think it'll be added to the next one. this is only 3200 words but it feels a lot longer to me
> 
> if you didn't see my post yesterday, which I deleted, it was an outline of this whole story. If you didn't see it, and you want to, you're more than welcome to message me and I can send it to you! 
> 
> (I ALSO ACCIDENTALLY DELETED ALL OF YOUR REALLY NICE COMMENTS FROM YESTERDAY IM SORRYYYYY)
> 
> Anyway, below is my post from yesterday, sans outline: 
> 
> \---
> 
> (1/24/17)
> 
> Hey … so I'm not sure if anyone cares at all or if this fandom is even still alive since it's been literal years. But I just reread this story and boy was that last chapter cringey? I've since deleted it, it was that bad, so sorry I guess.
> 
> Anyway, I wanted to post my original outline for this story, since I don't think I'll ever finish writing it. But I had the whole thing planned out so here ya go:
> 
> [OUTLINE] - (message me if you want to see it)
> 
> i want to apologize for never finishing this, I know there's a few people who really loved this story, and i feel bad for just abandoning it. I do have almost 2.5 full chapters that never got posted, but I didn't want to put them here because they were never edited. Anyways... if anyone reads this it'll make me happy :) you guys made this show so much fun for me <3
> 
> i think what i'm going to do is go back and edit the chapters that are posted, and then maybe start editing the ones i have drafted. so... there may be some new content but not for a while
> 
> anyway i am always on tumblr if you want to hang out @thedamnstars


	7. Remembrances of Yours (that I have longèd long to redeliver)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feels like a bit of a non-event, but i hope you enjoy all the same!

The last of her nightly ablutions, Abbie had learned, was helping Mrs. Crane to bed. Katrina usually didn’t require assistance undressing, but on occasion her skirt and bodice were as complicated to take off as they were to put on, and so she required help.

This was usually a task for Abbie or Verity. This night however — thankfully for Abbie — Katrina had retired early, even before supper, and had requested no assistance in her dressing for bed.

It had barely been four o’clock when Katrina went to her rooms however, and was now going on eight. Ichabod had eaten alone, sitting only with his documents and letters from General Washington for company. He was preparing to go south for the Hudson Valley soon, to meet with his regiment within the next fortnight.

The utensils on Abbie's silver tray clinked together as she made her way up the service stairs at the back of the house. Abbie decided that she hated to use this stairwell because it was dank and steep, and reminded her that she was a servant; but it was the closest staircase to both the kitchen and the master bedroom. So Abbie submitted herself to the task for the greater good, and began ascending the stairs — one at a time as not to spill Katrina’s stew. At this rate it would take her all night to serve the food, and it would have gone cold by the time she got there.

There wasn’t much light in the corridor when Abbie finally reached the top of the stairwell, the sun having set hours go, and the dim flicker of candle light that shined against the patterned wallpaper was hardly enough to lead the way. A small window looked out to the sky, to the stars and the bright full moon beyond, and the shadow of leaves rustling in the winter breeze.

The wick in the lamps crackled and snapped quietly in her ears as she passed by each of them; a pops in the darkness. She reached the door to Katrina’s bedroom and the sound of the wind only grew louder in her ears. Abbie felt a rush of energy overrun her, like the sweet sound of soprano voices entering her ears and mingling with the din of the sputtering candles, and the feeling that she had been here before.

Setting down the tray beside the bedroom door, Abbie abandoned Katrina’s supper and pressed herself against the painted wood.

Not a sound was coming from the inside; everything was still and quiet, the queer surge through her body going dead and dormant when she tried to find its source in the bedroom.

Backing off of the doorway, the voices rose again, this time coming from down the hall. This was all too familiar. Like a dream she could never recall the beginning of. But there she was, standing outside of a storage closet that the end of the hallway.

The swell of voices erupted in Abbie’s ears again, but unlike the first time, the parables spoke not about vague images of religion and sacrifice, but the words rang true and clear in her mind; the story of a hero and their lover, sacrificing their bond for the greater good.

 

_Body and soul, O love of thine,_

_Will forfeit th’ remembrances long’d past_

_Once unknown to she,_

_Will be gone but for in eternity’s sleep_

_And convalesced only ’til you be borne_

_And in such fruitless time, thee who does not know_

_Will be th’ one to hold your truth._

 

The words were too beautiful, too much, too true. This room held secrets, a hidden truth not yet revealed. The door was open just a crack, golden light spilling out and onto the wooden floor at Abbie’s feet— ghostly and velveteen soft against her skin, as if conjuring up an unknown force, an old magic. Abbie was awash with it. She knelt, settling down onto her knees in order to look through the hole unnoticed.

The voices grew even louder as Abbie peered through the crack. It was difficult to make out the interior of the room; only candlesticks on a large ring-shaped table there to provide golden light that flickered and cast long, phantom shadows across the table and the coven situated around it. If there was any indication that Abbie had aroused the attention of the enclave, they made no show of it, carrying on their chanting without so much as a broken note. Their hands — pale and thin and spidery — lay flat on the table, and as they chanted the fingers tensed, flexing almost dreadfully into claws. Their unnatural pale eyes gleamed like diamonds, like pearls.

Abbie could feel her mouth go stale, as she watched through the crack in the door. It was like she had stumbled upon a dream, or a nightmare — a shock of cold air kissed her face and confused her mind, and for a moment she went dizzy. A slight pain throbbed behind her eyes. Abbie thought for a moment that she could hear her own heart beat.

Her sense of deja vu moved to a resolute certainty that this was the same place she had seen in her dream. The witches were covered in their scarlet hoods, and sang their siren song, and Abbie could feel the powerful light of the full moon shining in from the window behind her.

They were all witches Abbie had met before. Katrina, their leader, tall and proud with her Sisters congregated at her side; Elizabeth Graham at her righthand, young and beautiful as Abbie imagined she once could have been. Her hair was struck through with golden light, as the fire played in her short tresses. The flickering in Elizabeth’s irises occasionally shifted to reveal their natural icy blue. They seemed to shine of their own accord, stormy and terrible, just as they had been the day Abbie met her. There was something subtle and calculated in her expression, as her gaze turned to her benevolent sovereign impishly, like she knew something Katrina didn’t.

Those Judas eyes.

Gooseflesh ran up Abbie’s skin when Elizabeth’s head turned, as one does when noticing something in the corner of their sight. Her gaze snapped towards the crack in the door, and her eyes met with Abbie’s. Elizabeth’s eyes bored into her. Just looking at her, Abbie could feel everyone of Elizabeth's crimes. The hairs tickling the skin on Abbie’s arm felt like insects crawling over her. Elizabeth smirked slowly, and through her nose let out a small mocking breath. She let her gaze linger heavily over Abbie’s face for a heated moment, before looking back to Katrina, who continued to chant. They were magnificent, like angels — beautiful and terrible.

Abbie lost her balance and faltered back, tipping onto the floor. Her nails scraped into the untreated wood of the floor, dry and coarse under her touch.

This coven was corrupt. These were the women that would banish Katrina to purgatory. They were all false, and Katrina was far too trusting. Elizabeth’s eyes had stalked her like unsuspecting quarry.

It was in moments like these that Abbie’s fingers itched for the familiar trigger of a pistol. Reliable, predictable, heavy in hand. She rose to her knees, striving to not trip herself on the long skirts that tangled about her feet. In the hall, the air was thick and hard to breathe, or maybe that was the result of Abbie’s beating heart. But from the window behind her, the white door which blocked her from the coven was awash in blue moonlight. Trees from beyond the glass shuddered in the wind, quivering in shadow against Abbie’s skin.

Abbie made it to her feet, shuffling herself against a wall for balance. Her breaths came heavily, and her first steps cumbersome and heavy. The coven’s song followed her as she made her way down the hall, even when she thought she would be out of its reach. Her heart began to pound heavily against her chest, painfully making its way into her throat and choking her.

Abbie sped up her pace, beginning to run down the corridor even as her legs faltered and cramped with each step. She needed to find Crane, or Verity, or somebody — she ran for Ichabod’s study, towards the stairwell.

She knocked head-long into Gideon, as she sped around the corner of the staircase just as he was climbing up. She would not have marked him, were it not for the fact that he stumbled on the steps and grabbed on to the side of her arm so they would not both go tumbling down.

“Abbie,” Gideon remarked in a high voice, catching them both on the railing. He chuckled, helping her to stand upright from where he stood two steps below her, and pressed out the wrinkles from his clothes. “Are you alright?” he asked, looking up at her with a smile, all plush lips, and round cheeks and bright eyes — closer to Verity’s age than her own. When he leaned back, Abbie could see that he was dressed well — in a clean linen shirt and black trousers, and a pleasant green waistcoat that looked no worse for wear — all of which was probably brought upon by his presence in the house.

“Gideon,” she breathed, smiling tightly and tilting her head to the side, “Did you need something?”

“No,” he started uncertainly, moving his foot awkwardly on the step, “but you were speeding so fast down the staircase, it seemed as if you were running from some thing, and your eyes— like you had seen a ghost.”

She must have paled because he peered up at her, and asked in a worried tone, “Are you sure you are alright, Miss Mills?” he narrowed his eyes, putting a reassuring hand at her forearm, “you’re shaking—“

She moved away from his touch, perturbed by his use of Ichabod’s epithet for her.

“Yes, I’m fine Gideon, thank you,” she muttered, and pushed past him, in order to reach the bottom of the stairwell. She was happy for his concern, and it was nice to have finally met him, but her skin was crawling and she was itching to see Crane, and it felt like a trembling in her bones.

Abbie dashed through the main corridor of the empty house. She was sure most everyone had retired by now. Moonlight illuminated the walls in blue shadow as she hurried past them, around the corners she could remember. The doorway to Ichabod’s study was illuminated in a warm glow that was interrupted as Crane’s shadow paced across the threshold. She pushed open the door, revealing his startled face when he turned around.

“Miss Mills—"

She faltered in the doorway, hesitating with a hand on the brass handle. She could feel her mouth moving, but no words escaped her. Ichabod approached with his hand out, like he was drawing close to a wild animal.

“Sit down," he said quietly, "please, you look all affright.”

“I don’t want to sit down,” she replied, quickly.

“For my health then, for you are beginning to frighten _me._ ”

Abbie’s hand left the door as she shuffled closer to him. She stood idle in the middle of the library, arms hugged around herself and her skirt moving about her feet. She could feel her heart; the racing beat slowed, and Abbie had a feeling that it was to do with Crane and his warm presence. Still, she felt uneasy — Katrina’s voice and Elizabeth’s foul, pearlescent eyes boring into her. She couldn’t shake them away.

“Miss Mills, have I done something to offend you?”

“No, Cr—“ she sighed, almost laughing. “No, you have not offended me.” Crane’s eyes however, were large and worried. They were also blissfully ignorant. “Why do you ask that?”

Ichabod licked his lips, and began pacing restlessly before her, “It is only that, this afternoon you very graciously accepted my apology—“ he stopped abruptly, turning to her, “which I am eternally grateful for, please do not think that I am not — and now here you are before me, and still I feel that you have not returned to your old gayety. And now I think, perhaps, I have done something to displease you in a way much greater than I had originally assumed. And Abbie, you know I would never have want for that, for you are always and forever the most— the most…”

Abbie prodded, “Finish your thought, the most what?”

Ichabod gulped, hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t break eye contact when he whispered, “The most important person in my life.”

“But,” Abbie stuttered, “Katrina— Mrs. Crane.”

“Abbie,” he huffed out a laugh, “you are well acquainted with the opinions I harbor towards my wife. More so than anyone else, I would imagine. I was under the impression we managed consign all this to the past.” Ichabod reached to take one of her hands between his, as he sat down on the arm of one of his overstuffed chairs. When he looked up at her, his eyes were soft, and incredibly blue.

He lowered his head for the first time, in something close to remorse, “I am aware this arrangement is recently new and all still very unfamiliar, but I did not think Katrina’s being here would depress you so. Or fill you with so much doubt about our friendship and my attachment to you,” he looked up, meeting her eyes again, “You know that I am bound to you, and will always love you… you know that, don’t you? You must.”

“Crane,” Abbie raised her free hand to his chest, wanting to stop him. Before she could open her mouth to put an end to his words, Ichabod took up her hand and clasped it to his chest bedside the other, above his beating heart.

“Always, Abbie,” he repeated, earnestly. Then he tilted his head, grinning, “Ever since that day on Eerie Pond, you remember?“

Abbie laughed, squeezing his hand “And you fell in, and I had to save you? Yes, I remember.” She almost choked on the words as they escaped her.

She didn’t remember any lake, or jumping in to save Crane. But the memory fell from her lips all the same, and she could feel the cold breeze on her face, and the brightness of the September sun, and the splash of waves that slopped over the lip of the rowboat when Crane fell into the water.

“You tease, Miss Mills, it is unkind.”

“Well, I am smaller than you,” she replied, barely above a whisper. She could smell the fetid pond air, and the soaking clothes on her back after she had pulled him aboard again. She felt sick. “And it didn’t take much strength for me to pull you out, did it? Such a skinny thing, you’re like a stick!”

Crane laughed and it sounded like bells, “I know the memory, thank you for reminding me of it. And so viciously, I might add.” With their fingers still knit together, Ichabod let their clasped hands fall, swinging between them, “It brings me happiness to know that you still remember.”

Abbie could feel herself shudder, Ichabod’s hand on hers anchoring her into the ground. She felt lightheaded, and a autumn breeze blew across her cheek.

Abbie closed her eyes, and she could remember.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter will be pretty much ALL ichabbie fluff i hope yall are happy


	8. What was Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes guys time really got away from me. Anyway I’m here now with an update ! and it's super long !! basically it's own fic !!! of just FLUFF (and also some angst bc ya girl's gotta have her angst) 
> 
> I’ve pretty much ignored most of the Cranes’ early timeline in order to make this storyline work. Also pls ignore any other facts that you might remember as I’ve rewritten those too. In fact, just ignore any actual fact from the show bc they make no sense and are all really confusing :)
> 
> Also a disclaimer: i know nothing about colonial era culture/history, so this whole thing is probably a factual mess. You have been warned. 
> 
> :)))

This is what Abbie remembered:

At the time of its purchase, the plot of New York land taken up by Professor Thomas Crane of Dover, England had been seen as being bought on a whim; the one outlandish act of Crane’s life, brought on by a mid-life crisis and the hope of one day traveling to the Colonies. But it had been three years since the deed papers were signed and the Professor had yet to step foot in America, more preoccupied with pressuring his young son into a life of tenured professorship and law than with uprooting his life to ship off on the Atlantic for three months, towards a country plagued with revolution.

The manor house which the old Professor had paid for stood cold and empty, resolute and unlived in. The plush and overstuffed furniture which had been provided by the proprietor and which was now hopelessly out of fashion, was kept beneath linen sheets to protect it from dust and the light of day. The grounds, being unmaintained, were now overgrown with bramble and there was a thriving amount of green ivy climbing the facade of the main house.

Professor Crane the Younger, son and newly named proprietor of his father’s land in America, first stepped onto Colonial soil (much to his father’s chagrin) in 1770, as a bachelor of nineteen. He was accompanied by his best friend, a broad-shouldered young man from noble stock called Abraham Van Brunt, who was himself on a jaunty and mercurial journey into the mouth of the Beast.

Young Ichabod Crane wanted adventure, love even, not stagnant research at the University and pupils who would not listen to a word he said. Upon arriving at the Manor on his first leave from General Washington's Continental Army three years later, in 1773, it was his singular responsibility then to restore and maintain the property; the first thing he did was to inquire in town (the closest being the Dutch settlement of Terrytown) about the acquisition of staff for the Manor. He was deliberately and actively opposed to the possibility of slaves, considering himself a staunch Abolitionist, and thus required a hired foreman for the land, and perhaps one or two paid servants for the house. It was a relatively large property, considering Ichabod’s inability to maintain it himself, about ten acres in total.

He ended up with four hired hands. A matron was acquired first, a Free woman named Sybil. She entered the Manor and seemed to breathe new life into it almost immediately; her humor was dry and facetious and Ichabod became fond of her quite quickly. The same week brought a portly old man and his young daughter. The years had turned Cyrus fat, but the child, Verity, was lean and full of energy; she danced in circles around Sybil and her father, as they sat out in the humid night air after work was done.

A fortnight later, Sybil opened the kitchen door to find Gideon on their steps. Young Gideon arrived drenched with rain, running through a storm to escape from a nasty employer in town who had thought he could take liberties upon his black farmhand. He had come in search of a hot meal and was never asked to leave. Gideon was the same age as Cyrus’ daughter — the two became fast friends, sharing each other’s tasks and secrets, and chasing each other around the stables and grounds. Ichabod thought it was nice to have such young children enjoying themselves, himself having lost some of that innocent gayety on the battleground and at times, at the wrong end of a bullet.

Six years, they grew together for six years. All five of them — Ichabod, Sybil, Verity, Cyrus and Gideon — finding new lines on their faces and new rings on the trees every year passed at the Manor. They grew and loved and became a family together.

And Abbie suddenly remembered.

Miss Grace Abigail Mills remembers being hired by Mr. Ichabod Crane two years ago, on a hot day in July of 1779. She remembers a cracked dirt road and the light, flowing hair of a young Ichabod Crane, the man who greeted her at the front door. He was thin, and not at all what she imagined the proprietor of a manor to look like. But somehow, he grew under her skin. Somehow, when Abbie set down her belongings in the upstairs room, and unpacked her things in a trunk with her initials already monogrammed into the front, she had found a new home for herself.

Abbie’s employer was kind and gentle, and a good-natured man. He was only three years older than her, but somehow had the eyes of one who had seen a bit too much of the world and all its pain, the pain of battle, of loss and of war. Independence had a high price: night terrors that rang through the house, and woke Abbie and Verity in their beds. A distant, faraway look in his eye whenever someone accidently dropped something and a gunshot-like crash resounded through a room. Late nights pouring over paperwork in his office, shrouded by candlelight, bordering on obsessive perfectionism. But sometimes Mr. Crane was lighthearted, grinning and laughing like the kind soul he was, and it sounded like bells.

Abbie found a home at the Manor, a place in their little family.

Crane felt more like a friend than an employer, and for that, Abbie was grateful. He had no interest in causing her grief or expounding on all the little things she had possibly done wrong in a day — it seemed that usually he just wanted an ear to bounce ideas off, or a second pair of eyes to read his pamphlets, or someone to sit with in his library at night while he read.

Abbie remembers that they became something more than family, they became friends.

The first time Abbie made Crane laugh was on another hot July day, two weeks after she’d first made Ichabod’s acquaintance. Still learning the avenues of the house and navigating the halls through the darkness, Abbie floundered her way towards the kitchen, only the barely-there light of candlesticks to guide her.

(The house was modest, but not for lack of materials to fill it up; Ichabod simply preferred practical things to those which were frivolous or gaudy, or used only as decoration. He preferred to fill the shelves with books, different instruments, art. Abbie found that she appreciated this; it made the house feel as though it had a personality, as though it was an extension of Crane himself; as though the house was a look inside that intoxicating mind of his.)

The first time she made Crane laugh, she had laundry balanced precariously in her hands, linens and sheets from the bedrooms, that felt as though they might go tumbling from her basket at any second. She had the difficult task of balancing the basket and all its contents, while also attempting to read a list of effects which Sybil had tasked her to get from town the next day. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath her, croaking as she struggled her way towards the service stairs.

Suddenly, a second pair of feet could be heard coming down the hall, “Hello, Miss Mills,” a voice called from behind her, making Abbie jump in fright and exclaim an unfortunate, “Damn it to hell!” — the laundry spilling from its basket and her list of papers scattering across the floor.

From behind her, Abbie heard a snort escape from Mr. Crane, like a laugh that he just couldn’t keep in.

Abbie gaped, “Oh—Mr. Crane,” she spluttered, trying to reach for the linens, “I’m so sorry, I meant no offense, I—"

Crane’s chuckle interrupted her, “Please, Miss Mills, do not panic on my account,” he laughed, reaching down to collect the fallen parchment and linen for her, “I have said and heard much worse, and I am certain you have as well.”

He neatly folded the linens in his hands and tucked them beneath the crook of his arm, beside a book he had been carrying with him, “After you,” he smiled, motioning for her to continue down the hall.

“I apologize anyway,” she chuckled weakly, starting to walk again with Mr. Crane at her side, “I did not notice you there.”

Ichabod smiled down at her, “Think not of it. And please, do not feel yourself so tied to formalities in addressing me, something less beholden to pretense will do; anything other than _Mr._ Crane.”

“Anything other than ‘Mister’?” Abbie frowned, changing her grip on the basket in her arms, and starting down the service steps, Crane following blithely behind. She chewed on her lip, deliberating for a moment before offering, deadpan, “Your Magnificence? Your Exaltedness?” she chuckled, looking down at her feet, “I believe just calling you _Mr._ Crane is much easier on the tongue, and Sybil would have my neck if she heard me address you in anyway other than what is expected. It is hardly proper.”

Crane laughed, leaning close like he was sharing a secret, “Well frankly speaking, Miss Mills, I do not give a _damn_ about propriety.” Even in the shadow of the stairwell, he couldn’t hide the grin on his lips, “It is one of the reasons, I think, why I left the British Empire behind me.”

The stairwell let out into the kitchen, where Abbie put down her basket at the table and turned to set a match to the candles, allowing for more light in the room. Ichabod put down the linens he had been carrying beside Abbie’s shopping lists, and headed for the door. He hesitated before leaving, his book held awkwardly in both hands, and turned back to her with a lopsided smile, “I hope you have a pleasant afternoon, Miss Mills,” he said.

“You as well, sir,” Abbie smiled back, nodding.

“And I do hope I did not scare you so badly. Earlier, I mean,” he chuckled, before ducking into the hallway, towards his study.

Abbie looked down at the candle she had been lighting, and grinned.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They made each other laugh, in private, little ways that made the others look at them askance.

Ichabod already had forged an intimate friendship with Abraham Van Brunt (and with Abraham’s fiancée Miss Katrina Van Tassel), and Abbie was very close with Verity and the others, but after only a few months, nothing could come close to the relationship they had with each other. It felt like fate had brought them to together, or something close to magic.

The two of them became best friends.

They spent almost all their free time with one another. If one or both of them wasn’t already preoccupied with their own singular duties or social calls, they could be found together. After supper most days, Abbie could be found in Crane’s study, the tea she’d brought him balanced on the edge of his desk while she read in his armchair, and Ichabod casually splayed himself over the small chaise-lounge with a book held close over his face. On sultrier nights, in the heat of summer, Crane would throw open the small window to allow for a night breeze to flow through the room and rustle Abbie’s skirts. (After a while, Sybil started giving her two teacups, instead of just one.)

If Abbie was occupied with her own task, Ichabod might sometimes bring his paperwork down to the kitchen, or out into the garden while Abbie folded the linen. He would read aloud to her in the warm afternoons, wind from the Hudson Valley blowing through the trees and rustling the pages of Ichabod’s book and making Abbie’s tasks difficult. When she would get fed up with the untamable sheets and tunics and things, Crane would grin slowly until he couldn’t take her griping anymore, and get up to help her, grabbing the other end of the linen sheet as they tamed it in the wind and folded it up together, hands meeting in the middle.

Ichabod would smile, “You make me laugh, Miss Mills,” he would say.

Abbie was in love with him.

She knew it was a bad thing, falling in love with a white man, the white man who paid her, no less. But there wasn’t much she could do to help it. It was just something that festered inside her, like an insatiable thing, which only itched any time she was away from him.

Abbie had never felt so complete, like she had found the other half to which she belonged.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Mr. Van Brunt — who stayed at the Manor often to visit his friend Ichabod — was not someone Abbie cared for, she could remember that much. Abraham was, like Ichabod, a proud man. But unlike his friend who had worked tirelessly for his money and accomplishments, Abraham Van Brunt was born into wealth and had won his fiancée through an arrangement of families. He had done nothing to achieve the things he boasted most about, and couldn’t even see that Miss Van Tassel cared not one shred about him.

Katrina visited the Manor with Abraham often, as she was also a close friend of Ichabod (meeting him even before she met her intended, as Abbie had learned). Miss Van Tassel was educated and accomplished, and belonged to a Quaker church, with whom she acted as a civilian nurse in triage for wounded soldiers.

There were days that Katrina visited without the company of her fiancé. Those were the days that Abbie dreaded the most. Because when the two of them were alone, Ichabod and Katrina were much more free with their affection and conversation with one another, versus the dragging afternoons when Abraham’s shadow lingered too heavily over them. They laughed and talked more freely, Katrina offering her thoughts on philosophy and politics, and things which her fiancé would have otherwise said were inappropriate for a woman to have opinions on. Abbie loved hearing her thoughts, but then again, so did Ichabod.

Crane would make a delighted humming sound deep in his throat each time he agreed with something Katrina had said, and each time, something ruffled Abbie close. They liked to stroll together, along the small dirt lanes of the acreage, with Katrina’s arm tucked beneath Ichabod’s, as they pointed little things out to each other beneath the changing leaves. Abbie knew they were nothing more than friends, but others might have said the pair looked a bit like they were in love.

Abbie had never so longed to see a day end.

They would take tea together in the afternoons and finally upon departure, Katrina would touch Ichabod’s shoulder and nod to Abbie and Verity — the latter of whom dutifully curtsied, the former scrappling to mirror the grace of Verity’s genuflection. (Ichabod’s lip would twitch upward, trying to hide a smile at Abbie’s clumsiness; she couldn’t blame him though, she probably did look ridiculous). Abbie watched with a sigh as Katrina climbed into her coach with Ichabod’s steady grip for help, and drove back to town.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Miss Mills!” Crane called to her one afternoon. Abbie had been walking the small thoroughfare at the side of the house, leading to the stable, when she made her way over to him. “Take a walk with me?” he asked as she reached him, offering out his arm to her with a small smile.

“And just where are you taking me on this walk?” Abbie asked, skeptical, holding fast to his arm all the same.

Ichabod grinned cheerily down at her, as was one of his favorite pastimes, “I believe it is going to be a surprise, Abbie,” he said, leading her down a path which opened to the wooded area beyond the stables. If others had seen them, they might have said the pair looked a bit like they were in love.

They walked for a quarter of an hour, on a path Abbie had never taken before — though she knew her destination when they reached it, as she exclaimed, “You are _mad_ if you believe I’m to get on that thing with _you_ steering it!”

Ichabod was stood before a dingy looking rowing boat at the edge of a pond. The water looked placid enough, though a strong breeze told Abbie the depths were anything but warm. Autumn was almost upon the valley, and any lingering opportunities for summer dips were surely gone. Still, she waded down the grass embankment to reach the small shore.

“I am a natural seaman Miss Mills,” Ichabod pouted, “it hurts to see you have such little faith in me. I almost joined the Navy, you know,” he said, helping her onto the boat with a steady grip.

“Oh?” Abbie asked with a raised brow, as she took his hand and attempted to gracefully board the rowboat, “And what stopped you?”

“I wished to see the world,” he explained, as she managed to embark smoothly, “A mariner’s only port of call is the sea.”

Abbie hummed in agreement as she took her place across from him. “I also cannot swim,” he added, as he readied himself in the rower’s position, and pushed them away from shore. Abbie felt the sides of her mouth pull up, and she laughed.

With full, deft strokes, Ichabod careered them across the pond. The sharp wind over the water chilled Abbie to the bone. She rubbed at her arms, warming herself with the friction of it, as Ichabod steered them closer towards the center of the lagoon. It was quiet here, save for the ripples on the water caused by Ichabod’s rowing, and the light chirping of afternoon doves. Wind rustled through the trees and blew at the black ribbon taming Ichabod’s hair.

“What is this place called?” Abbie asked quietly, letting herself bask in the afternoon sun as they floated along.

“ _Eerie_ ,” Ichabod replied, pulling back on the oars, “Abraham named it. He finds the harsh deepness of such a small pond to be disconcerting.” Eyes closed, face raised to the sky, Ichabod sighed peacefully, “Personally, I find there to be something glorious here; as though Mr. Shakespeare himself had conjured this place from the depths of his most sublime inner worlds.”

Abbie wrinkled her nose, “I am not sure I know what you mean. Richard III never cried ‘ _Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons’_ while floating along on a rowing boat.”

Ichabod chuckled. Resting the oars in their posts, he said, “More like the bower of the faerie Queen, ‘ _a bank where the wild thyme blows_ ,’” he smiled, reaching down to the water to slip his fingers across the mirrored surface. The boat gently careened to one side as Ichabod recited, “‘ _Where the oxlips and the nodding violet grows_ , _Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk roses and with eglantine.’_ ”

“As much as I enjoy seeing your dances and delight,” Abbie warned with a raised eyebrow, leaning to one side to level the boat, “I must ask that you do not channel Robin Goodfellow and his penchant for mischief by way of chaos. Please remain fully seated.” 

“Why Miss Mills?” Ichabod smirked, sitting up straight with most almost foxlike eyes, “Are you afraid I might tip the boat?”

Abbie held tight to both sides of the vessel as Ichabod smiled with all of his teeth, grabbing onto both sides of the boat with his long arms, and violently leaned to one side, thoroughly shaking them. Abbie grinned, “ _You_ ought to be the one who’s afraid; I can swim.”

“Fear not, Miss Mills!” Ichabod said, shooting out of his seat like some tragical hero, fist pounding into the air. “I will—” but, the boat swayed too far to one side, rocking Ichabod’s gangly limbs over the edge as he fell into the water. Ichabod’s words were swallowed up by the murky pool below. 

“Ichabod!” Abbie shouted, rushing to the lip of the rowing boat, trying to make out the shape of his sinking body among the agitated froth and bubbles. The boat rocked, taking on water that slopped over the edge, floating away on the waves Ichabod had created in the still water. Abbie’s skirts were soaked by the swell. “Ichabod!”

When Crane surfaced again, he gasped, taking in air and splashing around him like a wild thing, “Abbie—” he yelped, swallowing water.

She moved into the rower’s position, paddling over to where he was weakly treading amongst the waves. Abbie reached out to him, as the boat passed him by, taking one of Ichabod’s hands in hers as he used the side of the boat as leverage to pull himself up again.

“Where are your sea legs now, Ichabod?” Abbie teased, attempting to level the boat, as he struggled to pull himself over the side, “I thought you were a mariner.”

“Abbie, that is very rude,” he pouted, pulling himself out of the water while looking like a wet rat. His hair was matted to the back of his neck, its ribbon lost in the water. Abbie laughed, lighthearted.

Ichabod managed to get proper leverage, splashing water at Abbie as he threw a leg over the side of the boat, “Oi!” she shouted at him, pushing at his shoulder as he collapsed onto the bottom boards of the rowing boat, stretching out his long legs. His head lay to rest in Abbie’s lap, wet hair further soaking her dress. She put a hand in his hair, playing through the wet strands, and sighed lazily, “Sybil will not be happy with us,” she grinned, shaking her head in disbelief.

“She’ll have my head!” Ichabod exclaimed, rocking the boat in his enthusiasm. Abbie yelped in surprise, trying to steady herself while swatting at him playfully. Their eyes met, for a second, Ichabod’s crow’s feet full on display. She watched, as he broke their eye contact and blithely lowered his gaze to her lips, staring, parting his own.

Abbie raised her head and looked away, out across the water to the shore line, where the nodding flowers and cattails blew in the wind. Their little boat floated in circles, and they had no destination in mind. Her cheeks hurt from smiling.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Something in the state of their relationship had changed.

And the others noticed.

They didn’t have to look hard to see it. Abbie and Ichabod didn’t speak intimately in public or in the presence of Mr. Van Brunt or Miss Van Tassel, but they shared knowing looks and sly glances; private smiles as if they knew something others didn’t.

As the air turned cold, and the months dragged on, Abbie and Ichabod were barely ever seen apart from one another — holed up in Ichabod’s office as if all they ever wanted could be found inside. In the privacy of the library-cum-study, their heads could be seen tipped together in private conference as they looked over a large book together, not bothering to take turns reading the text, but Abbie standing with Ichabod flush at her back as his languid breaths tickled the back of her neck. She would flush each time he put his hand to the passage and ask if she was ready for him to turn the page, not willing to admit that she’d read the same sentence three times over in attempt to distract herself from his almost-touch.

One particularly cold December evening, Abbie broke away — stepped back from the desk on which the book was displayed and returned to the tray she’d brought in to carry his tea. Flustered, she finished laying out his biscuits in silence, not acknowledging Ichabod’s confused gaze as she turned to curtsy and flee the study. 

Back in the hall, shrouded in the dark lamplight, was Abraham Van Brunt, witness to the whole affair. A single sliver of light flickered against his dark eyes and light hair, reflecting the glow from Ichabod’s study. Abbie lowered her gaze and slinked past him, back to her work.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Here’s something Abbie doesn’t remember, because he whispered it too low for her to hear:

In the crevice of Abbie’s neck, with his forehead resting on her shoulder, lips wisping against her skin, Ichabod begged, _Marry me._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It had been quite some time since Ichabod had received any correspondence from this father or mother, both of whom had so far seemed quite contented to see his Oddness disappear across the ocean to the Colonies. He had been nothing but a burden to them for quite some time, with his rejection of their expectations and desires for what he might grow to become. Still, he missed them terribly. There was nothing quite like a smile on his mother’s lips, or the way his heart might grow suddenly warm and his stomach would tie itself into a contented knot on the rare occasion his father appeared proud of him.

So, when a letter arrived addressed to him, brought in by the hands of his dear Miss Mills, he invited her to relax with him in his study as he opened the correspondence with eager fingers and the shyest of smiles on his face. Ichabod held the page with both hands and lounged against the edge of his desk. It must have been a rather important letter for his father to have sent it, unless he had just missed his son so.

Abbie laughed from the corner of the study, “Stop dreaming of what the letter says, you big oaf, and read the thing!” Ichabod, realizing he had been staring at the floor daydreaming, looked up at her with a chuckle and flattened the page in his hands. He looked down again, grin on his lips, and began reading.

Immediately his smile darkened, turning downwards with such a veracity that it had Abbie sitting straighter in her seat. “Ichabod,” she called to him, but he didn’t stop. His eyes continued to tread the words, a short minute longer, until they reached the end of the page and suddenly stopped. The letter remained in Crane’s grip, close to his face as if he were trying to soak up the words, find any legible meaning.

“Ichabod, are you alright?” Abbie’s voice came gentle, soft, echoing about the small room, and then came the shuffling of fabric as she stood up to cross the space and reach him.

“No, yes — _fine_ , I mean. I am fine,” Ichabod stuttered, the letter crinkling in his grip as he tried to shuffle away from her.

“What does your father write?” Abbie asked, looking up at him with concerned eyes, resting a hand on his wrist. He didn’t respond, just pressed his lips together and dropped his head, turning to the desk and resting his hands across the worktop. Abbie reached towards him and took the crumpled letter from his grip. She read:

 

_Dover 22nd April 1780_

_Son,_

_I take this opportunity to communicate with You, not as a loving Father, as one might hope, but as a singularly distressed individual. On 21 April 1780 a letter came to my possession addressed by Yr companion, Mr. Van Brunt, describing in intimate detail the genesis of an equally intimate and destructive relationship with a housemaid of the Manor, which Brunt describes as having the displeasure of being Witness._

_‘Tis an easy thing to ask that I forgive the eccentricities of Yr childhood, as like most children You preferred the unconventional to the prescribed, however as all progenitors are want to do, t’was my hope that You would outgrow this childlike peculiarity. Mr. Van Brunt’s letter intimated quite anxiously to me that You’ve entered into what I will only describe as both offensive to me and criminal in the eyes of the Law and our Holy Father._  

_‘Tis my expectation and hope that You’ll protest these Claims, as any indiscretion of this scale on Yr part is, while not unexpected, wholly intolerable. To be sure, Son, You know these matters better than I, and ‘tis my desire to be corrected of these distressing affairs._  

_I am, &c._

_Yr Father_

“Ichabod,” Abbie said short of breath, and then thought better of the way she addressed him so informally, “Crane. The letter means nothing. Simply write your father back to correct him; he is wrong after all, there has been no indiscretion.”

_(There never would be.)_  

“Abraham, that bastard,” Ichabod chuckled through a whisper, through a sound as sharp as glass. He rubbed at his lips, “Knows me better than I know myself, sometimes. Most times.”

Abbie looked up at him, resting a hand on his taut arm, “Crane—”

“May I have a moment to myself, Abbie— Miss Mills?” he tried to raise his eyes to meet hers, though his lids were heavy and his gaze broke away far too quickly. Head bent towards his desk — the letter sitting atop it — Ichabod breathed deep, and closed his eyes tight.

Abbie whispered a hesitant _of course_ , before leaving the study and closing the door behind her, everything she could have ever wanted, left inside.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Miss Katrina Van Tassel became Mrs. Katrina Crane in December of 1780, in the dead of winter. It was a political affair, though to any of the thirty guests in attendance, most of whom were Van Tassels (only six lone figures belonged on the groom’s side, all of whom remained standing at the back of the church), it appeared to be a marriage of intense love. A love so strong that it drove Katrina away from her fiancé, and drove her fiancé into the cold, waiting arms of the Demon.

The couple did love each other, in a simple, intimate way. It was the love of friends, _philia_ , _amor eterno_. It was not the love Ichabod had already found in another, and it was not the love Katrina could never admit to (a love that dare not speak its name). It was not the love of a paramour or a sweetheart, but the all-encompassing love of one who could be by your side always, the one who could protect you from danger, from heartache, from death itself. Katrina needed a way to escape from a freedomless marriage tied to Van Brunt, and Ichabod — as much as he openly hated himself for it — had to appear to publicly reject Miss Mills.

They were married in December of 1780, in the dead of winter. The couple could see their breath as they spoke their vows, billowing around them in frozen clouds, though they smiled happily as though there was nowhere else they’d rather be. They put rings on each other’s fingers, and kissed each other’s closed lips and walked away, tied together.

Katrina began moving her belongings into the Manor. Her books lined the shelves beside Ichabod’s, and her art went on the walls, and as much as Abbie  constantly reminded herself that Ichabod loved her only as a friend ( _philia, philia, philia,_ she repeated over and over) still, she waited for the other shoe to drop. She waited for Ichabod to realize what a beautiful woman he had married, and Abbie waited for Ichabod to come to his senses and finally treat her with the propriety and the offhanded curtness of her past employers.

Abbie knew a lot about Mrs. Crane: she knew her favorite color (mauve), and how she liked her tea (two sugars, dash of cream), and that publicly she and Ichabod had been trying for a baby, but one would not be conceived (due less to infertility and more to Ichabod’s absence in recent months). But she didn’t know Katrina personally. They were civil as a mistress and maid ought to be, but this formality in their acquaintance only highlighted the peculiarities in Abbie’s relationship with the man of the house.

It created a strain between the three of them. Katrina couldn’t understand Ichabod’s attachment to one of his staff, and Abbie silently resented the Cranes’ love for one another.

Abbie spent less time in Crane’s study, the second teacup now used by Mrs. Crane, who had taken to spending the evenings discussing literature with her husband. Crane spent less time with Abbie in the kitchen or out in the garden, his own duties to the Continental Army becoming more frequent as of late (skirmishes flooded the valley, and the colonies to the south). Any free time was spent with his wife, rather than with the staff.

Even in the winter, when the windows were shuttered closed, and no one left the Manor but for necessity, they barely saw each other at all. For two months, Abbie barely spoke a word to Ichabod. She delivered his correspondence, and his evening tea, but it was with a perfunctoriness that stung deep. She could feel Crane’s eyes lingering on her, and she could remember the desperate way his lips trembled – opening and closing like he had something to say.

But most of all, Abbie remembered the stinging pain of knowing the man she loved was never hers to begin with. Most of all Abbie remembered how much she hated herself for hating her friend’s marriage.

And Abbie remembered that for all the pain, she was glad to have the memory of sitting in a rowboat in the middle of a pond, soaked to the bone with Ichabod Crane.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, I love to hear your comments, and i'm on tumblr @thedamnstars


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